Until the Earth is Free
by Randomcat1832
Summary: 1831: A full year before their revolution, les amis are planning their barricades. Meanwhile, Éponine is tangled in a net of confusing decisions between family, love, and happiness. A detailed account of the last year in the lives of the characters.
1. All the Secrets

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: Why, thank you for having a look at this fanfiction of mine! I hope you decide to stick around. This is now my third story for _Les Mis_ and, like the two before it, it's based off of the musical. I feel it's important to point this out. There are so many adaptations it can get confusing! So yes, this one is from the musical universe, but draws several details from the Brick as well. It may also take a few details from Shōjo Cosette, the anime.

A warning: this story will contain mild sexual content, mostly at the hands of Montparnasse. It may grow dark as featuring themes of rape. However, there will be little to no violence or coarse language.

**::**

_June 5, 1831  
366 days_

Paris at its most beautiful. In the mid-evening, with the sun setting and casting a faint orange glow over the city. The faint glow, seemingly settling itself into every crack in the cobblestones, in the woodwork of every building. Warming the stones. That half-light breathed in the city's very heart. Such a perfect and beautiful sunset not a soul could look into it and find their breath taken away.

The sunset was beauty, it was hope, and it marked one day less to be lived on this earth. Another day gone. But there is a sort of beauty in letting go.

Amongst the filth, in the slums of San-Michel, a boy strode confidently through the streets with his head held high. A skinny urchin of a boy, just ten years old. Overlong blond hair hung in his eyes and his feet were bare and blistered. But he walked with an air of childlike confidence and pride.

The boy arrived in front of a café, one with a weather-worn sign and dirty awning. He opened the door, and casually waltzed through the café, up the stairs, and into the hidden attic room. He looked around as he shut the door behind him. Nobody was here yet. Nobody that was, except for …

The boy walked over to the table and poked the sleeping man. A bottle of wine lay on the table, empty, and a drained, chipped glass sat on the floor. The boy kicked it out of the way and poked the sleeping man again. "R. R, wake up."

Unfortunately, Grantaire had once again drunken himself into a stupor and there was no getting him back now. The boy left him where he was and sat down opposite him, putting his feet up on the table before Enjolras walked in and scolded him. He reached for the empty bottle of wine and shook it, hoping for a few drops of the liquid to fall, but it was dried out. _Leave it to Grantaire to drink every last drop_, the boy thought to himself, sulking. He'd never had wine – and perhaps for good reason, seeing as he was just ten – but that was one of his life's goals. To try wine.

The door opened, and the boy looked up in alarm. It could only be Enjolras. It wasn't, though. It was a girl. Dressed in a ragged white blouse and a muddy red skirt, a worn green shawl wrapped around her skinny shoulders. Like the boy's, her face was streaked in dirt and there were bruises down her arms. "Gavroche," said Éponine. "What have I said about putting your feet up on the table like that?"

Guiltily, his feet slid away and came to rest on the floor. Crossing his arms, Gavroche studied his sister. "'Ponine, you're comin' to a meeting!"

"Oh," said Éponine with a shake of her head. "Oh, no. I was just wondering if Monsieur Marius had arrived yet. I see he hasn't, though, so I'll be going … I shall wait for him at the door." She turned to go, long black hair swishing out behind her.

"Wait!" Gavroche called, and she stopped. "Wait. Don't go ... you mustn't go. I hardly ever see ya. Stay here for a bit."

Éponine smiled and rested her head against the door frame. "Just for a bit. I'm waiting for Monsieur Marius." But she shut the door and sat down next to the drunken Grantaire. She reached for the bottle of wine and shook it, searching for a few drops. The bottle was empty, of course, and she brushed it aside.

"You shouldn't drink. You're only sixteen, and a girl," Gavroche scolded.

"Neither should you. You're only ten, and a child," she shot back. "And anyhow, I've drunken before and I'm fine." Sitting back, she seemed to consider this the end of the matter. Addressing her younger brother, she added, "How are you then, Gavroche? I've not seen you in a few weeks."

"I'm grand," the ten-year-old boy answered. "Life on the streets have got to be better than having 'Parnasse in it. Speaking of which, is he the cause of those bruises on your arm?" He pointed. "If he is I'll be sure to give that bastard a bruise or two myself."

Éponine shoved her shawl downwards to hide them. "It's nothing," she muttered. "And watch your tongue." Here the door opened and Enjolras stepped in. His eyes fell on Grantaire and he sighed.

"He's a lost cause, isn't he? – oh! Hello." He noticed Éponine sitting there. The girl stood and waved the Gavroche, murmuring, "I should be going." She disappeared down the stairs. Enjolras glanced after her before turning his attention to Gavroche.

"Your sister?"

"Yes. She wanted to see Marius." Gavroche shrugged. He reached over the table and shook Grantaire's shoulder again, more harshly this time. "R! Grantaire!" This time Grantaire mumbled something blearily and raised his head slightly, eyes half-open. Then he fell back onto the table.

"Heavens," Enjolras muttered bitterly. "We cannot have even one meeting without that fool drinking himself into a stupor. I shall have to find him a hansom cab to take home. Again."

The meeting began soon after, as the rest of _les amis_ began to arrive. Gavroche spent most of the time trying to wake Grantaire again. "Give it up, child," Enjolras told him. "He won't wake any time soon. Focus, now."

Gavroche made a face but turned his attention to Enjolras. The "Leader in Red" was drawing out some kind of plan on a large slate. "We will need to make more red flags," he was saying. "As red is the color of our revolution and our cause. This shall be imperative in the future. Who here has red items of clothing in their homes?"

"I've a red tablecloth," Combeferre spoke up.

"Excellent. Take care to bring it in tomorrow … "

**::**

Marius made his way down the stairs in a hurry. He always took care to be one of the first to escape the meetings. Enjolras would often chide him for seeming to be "in a faraway land" during meetings or lecture him for his constant tardiness. If Marius escaped early he would be able to avoid said lectures if only Grantaire was drunk enough to prove a distraction.

As he pushed the door to the café open, he felt a hand grab his arm. The young man yelped in surprise, but when he spun around he saw it was only Éponine. She was smiling at him, still holding his arm in a tight grasp.

"Boo," she said with a hearty laugh. She always laughed loudly and seemingly without any restraint. Éponine was not the type of girl to giggle lightly. "Did I startle you, M'sieur Marius?"

"A bit, yes," Marius murmured, shaking his arm free of her grasp. "I've not seen you about much these past few days."

Éponine shrugged, sinking down into a sitting position. She sat atop a crate and looked up at him with a half-smile. "You can always find me, if only you look. And anyhow, you've not been about home much either. I came to look for you before the meeting, but I must have just missed you, M'sieur."

_Home_ would be the Gorbeau tenement, of course, that gutter of a flat complex in the outskirts of town. Where Marius rented a room and the Thénardiers – Éponine's family – did not.

"I've been away," Marius murmured absently. He sat down next to Éponine on the crate and she shuffled aside to give him room. A sigh, and he said, "I should be going – before Enjolras comes out." He rose, and Éponine leapt to her feet too.

"Shall you be returning tonight?" she asked quietly. "I've missed you terribly."

"I think so, yes," Marius answered. "Later tonight."

She flashed him a sour look and shrugged. "Very well, then. I shall see you tonight. I look forward to it." She started to go, then paused with a half-smile. "And, M'sieur, perhaps you can show me what's in those silly books of yours!"

"They're law books!" Marius called after her, but she was gone already. With a sigh, he began to walk in the opposite direction. He intended to return "home" that night, but first he would … what would he do? Perhaps he'd take a stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg …

**::**

Éponine met her sister under the Pont Neuf. Azelma was seated cross-legged, drawing patterns in the dust with one finger, her auburn hair falling in her eyes. She looked up when she saw Éponine and cocked her head to one side.

"You've come. I'll have you know _he_ came."

Éponine bent down next to her. _He_ was their codename for Montparnasse. She cursed freely. "Blast." Then, with a sigh, "He's at the Gorbeau place now, is he not?"

Azelma turned back to drawing in the dust. "I don't know. I delivered those letters of Papa's. There were quite a lot of them." She did not look up as she said this, her dark eyes following the letters she was drawing. Her name. Azelma. She spelled it out, _Aselma_.

"Here, you've spelt it wrong," Éponine murmured. She wiped out the _s_ and replaced it with a _z_. "You see?"

Azelma stared at the word before saying, "I see. It's been such a long time since I've written out my own name." She stood up and pulled her sister up with her. "Come. Let's return home. One of the rich gents I delivered that letter to said he'd come."

"Which one?" asked Éponine.

"I don't know. I've forgotten his name. But the actor."

"A rich actor?" Éponine scoffed.

"Don't ask _me_. He might be a playwright, really. But Papa told me he was an actor."

Éponine figured the man was a playwright. She didn't know of any rich actors. She and Azelma would, of course, have to tell Thénardier that in fact both sisters were there. They'd both receive a beating if he found out Éponine waited for their neighbor outside of a café while Azelma went about his dirty work. Or if Montparnasse told him she had not been there.

Éponine did not know when she stopped thinking of their father as _Papa_ and referring to him as _Thénardier_. It was around the time the inn shut down and the family moved to Paris. The sixteen-year-old still remembered that day as thought it were yesterday.

As the sisters began to walk back to the Gorbeau tenement, Azelma said, "'Ponine? Are we going to see Montparnasse again today?"

Éponine gritted her teeth. "Not if I can help it, we shan't."


	2. Broken Hearts Shattered

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: Thank you all, for your wonderful and kind reviews! As always, they truly mean a lot. Indeed, the Thénardier family will play a large role in this story, and Cosette will be introduced soon too. However, to all of you: I do not wish to disappoint so I'll say it now. This is not, in fact, an Enjolras/Éponine story. It is simply a fictional account of events that happened in between the story we are given in the musical and I am trying to make it as canonical as possible. To guest reviewer Jaconda, my reply is in the review page.

_WARNING_: this chapter contains some sexual content and reader caution is advised.

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**::**

Chapter Two: Broken Hearts Shattered

_June 6, 1831_  
_365 days left  
_

The sky bled black night, a darkness seeping into the air and consuming the city, devouring it under its black cloak. With the beauty of the June sunset gone, the world was cold and careless. No stars shone tonight, even as the clock struck twelve o'clock and a new day began. The only light came from the faint, flickering flames of the streetlights but they were a dim source of hope for the wretched of Paris.

In the heart of the city, where one found the Notre Dame or the Pont d'Austerlitz, the streets were quiet and peaceful. Curtains were drawn but leaked out light from the wealthy's gas-lamps. It was the opposite near the Gorbeau tenement. A part of the city which thrived at night. Years ago, this part of town was considered respectable. Humble, but respectable. Now this part of the city consisted of slums and dirt and beggars. All of which Éponine and Azelma were well accustomed to.

A group of haggard looking women shared a large, worn, woolen blanket, huddled together neath a streetlight and sewing by the faint flame. The worst sort of men roamed the streets, leering at the two young girls who passed them by. Children slept close together in the alleyways, huddled together in a pathetic attempt to stay warm. Women in low-cut, torn gowns, faces smeared in makeup, large hats with feathers on their heads, corsets showing, lined up against the wall of a building, always smiling at customers who grabbed cruelly at their merchandise. A girl who could be no older than thirteen, wearing a dirty red dress cut above her bony knees, led a much older man wearing a cravat by the hand to a back alley. He had his arm around her. One hand stroked her naked breasts, which had barely begun to develop. With his other hand he clung to her rear. He did not let go.

Azelma stared, then turned away. Éponine could not bear to look.

Éponine pushed open the door of the Gorbeau tenement. The rickety stairs seemed more menacing than they usually did, like a stairway to doomsday. She hated climbing those stairs, dreaded it every day. She dreaded opening the door to the decrepit apartment and having to see her father and mother. Having to see Montparnasse, who always seemed to be lurking and waiting for her. And Monsieur Marius was hardly ever there, either. Éponine never knew whom she detested more: her father, who allowed Montparnasse to do those _things_ to her and slapped her if she fought; or her mother, who sat back and allowed it all to happen right before her very eyes, and turned Gavroche out to the streets when he was barely seven.

Azelma wasn't behind her any longer. The younger sister was idling, drawing water from the well in the front of the building. The handle was rusty and often broke. It was a fine excuse to avoid a few minutes with the family. Éponine didn't blame her one bit. Or, at least, not terribly much.

She mounted the stairs, every creak of those steps her executioner sharpening his axe. She arrived at the landing. She closed her eyes and took one long, deep breath. She stepped forwards, moved slowly down the hall. Her feet like lead. She arrived before the door. She pushed it open.

They were there. They were all there. Her mother seated on the chair, taking long swigs from a bottle of liquor. Her father seated on the finer chair, the one with the beat-up little cushion it. His feet up on the desk as he smoked from his pipe. And Montparnasse – oh, dear God, Montparnasse, lying on the bed her mother and father shared. His legs were spread out. He was the first to see her. He was always the first to see her. When he set his cold eyes upon her he gestured at his legs and the bed as if invitation.

It was never an invitation.

Her father was the first to speak. "There ya are, you stupid brat. Where do ya think ya've been, eh? Loiterin' about while your family suffers here, in this slum of a home? And where is that useless little sister of yours? _Azelma_!"

Azelma appeared in a heartbeat. She held the bucket in her hands. "I'm here, Papa," she gasped. "I was fetching some water. But the damn crank was broken. You know how it always breaks."

Thénardier waved her off, focusing his attention on Éponine. "Very well. But ya haven't told me where _you've_ been."

"I was delivering those letters of yours," she muttered. "If you don't mind. Perhaps next time I shall stay here while you deliver the letters about the city. And I might loiter about, smoke, and drink, as you do. Perhaps then – "

Thénardier was on his feet in a flash and his slap cut her words short. It was hard enough to make her stumble and she nearly fell backwards. Hastily, she scramble to her feet and stood before him, trembling but trying not to let it show.

"Don't you get saucy with me, now, young _mademoiselle_. Perhaps I _shall_ keep you here tomorrow. I'm sure 'Parnasse would be glad to keep you company."

The threat of Montparnasse, the only thing she really feared, was enough to make her keep her mouth shut. Éponine set her jaw and turned away. Thénardier smiled cruelly. "I should have thought so. Azelma!"

Azelma, who had been preoccupied in splashing the water over her dirt-streaked face, looked up grimly. "Yes, Papa?"

"I've a job for you, my girl. You must buy a few things for me. I've written you a list and I trust you to follow its instructions."

The younger girl stood in protest. "But _Papa_," she whined, "Papa, I'm so very tired. I … 'Ponine and I have been running all about the city delivering your letters. I'm tired, Papa. Please, in the morning."

He took several quick strides towards her, and in a heartbeat he had a hold of her hair. Azelma cried out, letting a whimper escape. "You'll do as I say," he hissed, dropping her again. She fell to the floor in a heap, quickly scrambling to stand.

"All right, all right!" It came out as a wail. "Please. Give me the list." She turned to Éponine and reached out her hand. "Let's go,"

A relieved Éponine began to follow her younger sister, but Montparnasse's icy drawl stopped her short. "'Ere now, I think our 'Ponine's 'ad enough work for the day … let 'er rest fer t'night. Girl deserves it."

It all happened in a rush after that. Azelma left and the next thing Éponine knew, she found herself lying in her bed, waiting for sleep to take power over her. In the dingy ditch of an apartment, there was a very small windowless room off to the side, no bigger than a broom cupboard. It had nothing else in it other than the small bed she shared with Azelma and the worn desk shoved messily in the corner where a half-melted candle would sit, the only source of lighting in the little room. There wasn't any room to move.

Éponine blew the candle out, praying for sleep to claim her. But the sixteen – year – old knew Montparnasse would come. He always did. And just as she'd expected, he stepped into her room, approaching her with cold speed. A terrible, sly grin on his face. He sat down on the bed, gripping both of her arms tightly, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes spring with tears. She squirmed and writhed at first, but he was much stronger than she. And so, as he pulled away the ragged, worn fabric of her skirt, she let it happen.

**::**

When she woke, after it was over, there was a form next to her in the bed. Montparnasse? Too weary to open her eyes, she kicked hard at the figure, emitting a wail and a bleary, "Ouch! 'Ponine, whatever was _that_ for?"

Éponine forced her eyes open, turned her head to see Azelma, not Montparnasse, next to her. Her sister was curled in fetal position, curled up into the little ball wherein she kept herself hidden. Her voice still muffled, Azelma mumbled, "Why did you kick me? I'm terribly tired; I've only just returned."

Éponine rolled over slightly. "I'm sorry. I thought you were _him_."

Azelma closed her eyes yet again. "Well, I'm quite sure I'm not. I purchased the things Papa requested. It's done. He gave me a slice of the bread for my efforts."

Hearing these words, Éponine sat bolt upright. "Bread? Did you say bread?"

"He had me buy a very small loaf. Not the nice white bread, only the dark kind. He said I might have a slice. The rest, I believe, he's already had. Along with the beer. And the whiskey. And the wine. You'll want to be wary of him this morning. He's quite drunk."

So her father was drunk again. It was hardly a surprise, and Éponine climbed out of the tiny bed, pressing herself flat against the will and inching her way out of the room. She pushed the door open and stepped out.

Her mother didn't seem to be around, and, thank the heavens, neither did Montparnasse. Her father, on the other hand, was seated at his desk and scribbling away at a letter. Just as Éponine began to slip out the front door, ignoring the soreness in her legs, his shouted slur came from behind her: "Where do ya think you're going, girl?"

Éponine's back stiffened and she stepped out the door. "I am going out," was all she said, and then she was gone, slamming the door shut behind her. Out … out … had to get out … she was half-running, half-tumbling down the stairs, when she fell directly into a figure mounting them. Strong arms took hold of her waist, swooping her up and down onto the next step. She felt his touch on her bare arms, and it sent a sweet sort of chill down her spine.

"M'sieur Marius!" Éponine exclaimed, breaking into an involuntary grin. She fumbled with her ragged shawl, hiding the bruises on her arms. There was no hiding the fresher ones near her wrists, so she folded her hands behind her. "Good morning to you, M'sieur Marius."

"Éponine," he answered her, smiling and nodding. "You are up very early. Wherever might you be headed?" His smile was light and easy, his teeth showing slightly. A stubborn little curl of light brown hair fell in his eyes. He did not seem to notice.

Éponine lifted a hand and hesitantly tucked it away. "Your hair was in your eyes, m'sieur. And … well now, we cannot have that now, can we?"

Marius gave a brief chuckle. "It is terribly inconvenient, yes. Er. Thank you, Éponine."

"Don't thank me," she scoffed. "Why don't you accompany me to the Jardin du Luxembourg? Would you mind terribly? It's still very early and no one would see that you are with a poor girl like myself, m'sieur."

He looked hesitant, but at last smiled and nodded. He offered his arm, like a true gentlemen. "Very well. It would honor me to go for a stroll with my friend. However, I most certainly do not care what _they_ think. I've no intention of causing a scandal and none shall arise."

She took his arm gladly, and they walked in silence. She wished to rest her head against his shoulder, or for him to lift her up and hoist her to sit on his shoulders. Her father used to do that, when she and Azelma were young. In the happier days, before the Man in the Yellow Coat came to take the Lark away. Back when he was her Papa and not Thénardier. Or, at least, when he could be bothered to.

In the park it was a bit more crowded. Or, at least, there were a few bourgeois citizens strolling down the paths. Ladies took the arms of gentlemen, allowing themselves to be escorted and shown off in their finery and bonnets. Not like Éponine, who seemed to lead Marius and not the other way around. A few glanced at Marius, holding the arm of Éponine, in her rags and dirty shawl, her black hair falling messily around her thin shoulders.

"Let go of my arm," she ordered. "I don't want you to cause some scandal. Let go of my arm, m'sieur. You must!"

Marius laughed lightly. "Don't be silly, Éponine."

She attempted to shake free of his sturdy grip. "Let go, I say! I insist!" But he was stronger and it took more effort to free her arm. As she did, she stumbled and crashed into a figure. Both of them tumbled to the ground, and she heard someone exclaim.

Éponine found herself scrambling to her feet before she could see who she'd bumped into. She stumbled backwards, towards Marius, reaching for his arm. But when she groped, his arm was not crooked for her to take. Instead, he was standing quite straight, his eyes wide and fixed on the person Éponine had run into. It was a girl. A young lady.

_Oh, God_. Éponine stared at Marius and the way he gaped, then at the young lady. She seemed to be about Éponine's own age, perhaps a bit older. She wore a long and gorgeous white gown, a lace-trimmed bonnet atop her head with the ribbons undone. Her ash blond locks falling neatly about her shoulders. Marius stared at her and she stared back, each of them seemingly lost in the world of each other.

A man approached the girl, an older gentleman in a waistcoat. He took the young lady's arm and began to pull her away. "Are you all right?" Éponine heard him asking. "You ran off when the wind took your bonnet and I lost you … whyever are you covered in dirt? What happened, Cosette … ?" And here they walked out of range.

Marius was still staring after her, his mouth half-open in a gape. But new thoughts were racing through Éponine's mind. _Cosette_ … the Lark … no, it couldn't be. Surely there were other girls named Cosette. Surely they, too, had blond hair … it could not be …

_Éponine is a young girl, a child, again. She's wearing her favorite dress, a long pink thing with lace at the collar and her blue bonnet. The rag doll she's always treasured, Émélie, is cradled in her arms. Azelma is upstairs. Papa is out. Maman is working in the kitchen, making soup for the customers. And there is the Lark, huddled under the table like the pathetic thing she is, scrubbing vigorously. Her blond hair is falling in her eyes._

_Éponine and Azelma have been playing and the Lark is out in the dark woods, fetching water. It makes the little Thénardier girls giggle to think of her crying out there all alone. But she's coming back now and there is a strange man wearing a yellow coat with her. And he takes her away and buys her the prettiest doll in the toy shop window. Éponine wonders if the Lark will come back, but she never does. And from here the inn stops getting business, and then they leave for Paris and they lose The Baby and everything is wretched and miserable and Éponine, only twelve, hates it all and she wishes she could go back home to a time when things were happy and the silly Lark was there and did all the housework for them and Papa didn't drink quite so much and Maman was always kind and they had nice dresses and pretty dollies and she blames the silly, stupid, Lark for going away …and her name was Cosette Cosette Cosette Cosette …_

Marius's voice, always so nice to hear, broke Éponine from her thoughts. "Who was that girl?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why should I know? She's just some silly little bourgeois two-a-penny thing."

Marius sighed, his gaze still fixed on the place where she'd been, as if he could still see some ghostly presence of her. "That old man … I imagine he was her father – what did he call her? I did not hear it. I heard that the name ended in 'ette."

"I don't know," Éponine said again. "I heard nothing. I don't know who she is. Come along, m'sieur, we were having such a nice walk …" But inside, she was breaking, breaking into little bits that cried.

"Girl's names sounds so nice when they end in 'ette," Marius went on dreamily. "It suits a lady, don't you find?"

"Yes, yes," Éponine said impatiently. "Come now, m'sieur. Can't we carry on with our lovely stroll?"

"Find her for me, Éponine," Marius said suddenly. "Please."

Her voice rose. "However do you expect me to …"

"You're clever," Marius insisted. "You are. You know your way around, as you said yourself. Please. I'll … do anything."

She closed her eyes. Tears welled there and no matter what she did, she could not will them away. So she turned to face the trees and wiped at the tears with the back of her hand. "I shall do it. I shall try."

Then, very quietly and just to herself: "For you."


	3. For Him, Anyhow

**Until the Earth is Free**

An aside: I know that Cosette was a brunette and Marius had black hair in the book, but I still picture them as Katie Hall and Eddie Redmayne. I read the novel after seeing the musical, and by then the musical had mostly consumed my mind and visions of the characters. And since this story is based primarily off of the musical, I figure I am totally qualified to do this.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Three: For Him, Anyhow

_June 6, 1831  
365 days left  
_

The sun seemed brighter than usual. Its rays blessed the wealthy of the city, kissed their cheeks and warmed their skin. But the bourgeois blocked out the sun's warm beams. Parasols were held fashionably over ladies' shoulders, lined with fine lace. Top hats protected the men's heads, and the two walked arm in arm, in neat and orderly pairs. Some of the older ones had children. Little boys in tiny waistcoats and suits. Little girls in miniature versions of their mother's satin gowns and bonnets on their heads.

Conversation was small talk of the weather and wasn't the day just _lovely_. There was gossip about Mademoiselle Something who'd caused the most dreadful scandal and Madame So-and-so's dinner party last night, and the annoying habits of the servants. "I promise you, Mademoiselle, she was staring at my pearls as though she wished to snatch them from my very own neck and run off with them! Can you imagine?" "Why, yes, Monsieur, I agree, the sun is quite lovely today." "Hélène, my child, come back here … you shall soil your lovely new gown … Maman paid a great deal of money for that … "

Amongst this stiff, distinguished crowd, walked a young man in a waistcoat like all the others, a stack of papers in his hands, but unlike the wealthy citizens around him, he wore no hat and allowed his headful of blond curls to be seen. He was quite handsome for his twenty-two years, and a few daring young ladies snuck bold peeks at him. But as he went through his papers, Enjolras paid them no notice.

He was still in a lamentable temper over last night's failure of a meeting, and in fact had spent the entire night and a good part of the morning planning the next one. He had drawn up some pamphlets and had only just taken them to the printer's. The man in the shop, a stooped old fellow with tufts of snow-white hair sticking out from random places in his otherwise bald scalp, had given him a disapproving glance when he saw the pamphlet Enjolras wanted to print. "Oh … How many copies will that be, monsieur?"

"Make it twenty-five. No. Thirty. No. Thirty-five. Yes, thirty-five, if you please." Enjolras had cleared his throat. "Er, thank you."

The price for thirty-five pamphlets had been hefty, but a price Enjolras was not only able to pay, but more than willing to. He now read over the pieces of paper over and over, obsessively. Suddenly, a figure barely higher than his waist rammed into him at top speed, causing the student to stumble and drop his pamphlets. Like autumn leaves, they fluttered over the ground and scattered. Without meaning to, he cursed. "Damn it!"

He spun on the person who'd barreled into him so rudely, only to find himself staring down at the face of Gavroche, his dirty little face brightened with a cheeky grin. "I got ya," the ten-year-old teased.

Enjolras could have slapped that grin right off just then, but instead he sighed dejectedly. "_Hello_, Gavroche. You might help with these."

"What are they?" asked Gavroche, moving to gather them. "I can't read, so you must tell me what they say."

"Pamphlets, for our cause," Enjolras explained. "And now _you_ can run off. Stop being such a little pain, child," he added in a teasing manner, ruffling the young boy's overlong blond hair.

Gavroche scoffed, thrusting the gathered pamphlets at Enjolras. "Oi! You're talking to the King of the Streets here, _monsieur_ Enjolras." He crossed his arms over his little chest.

Enjolras ignored that comment, starting to count the pamphlets. "You've missed one. There are only thirty-four pamphlets here." But just as he said this, Gavroche was pulling out the one he had hidden in his jacket, which he handed over.

"Wondered if you'd miss it!" And then he took off, laughing all the way.

**::**

Éponine wandered the streets the rest of the day with seemingly no purpose. Like a lost puppy, she wove in and out of alleys following a scent. Her heart sharp with pain, she followed Cosette and that man. After leaving Marius' side, she'd began to walk the way Cosette and the man had gone, and seen them exiting a bakery.

Was it the Man in the Yellow Coat? He looked like Éponine remembered him, but that memory was hazy. She'd been so young, and after Cosette the Lark had left she hadn't thought about either of them. Or at least, not very much.

The Lark didn't look like a lark any longer. She was beautiful. As Éponine followed her, the more she looked at her, the more beauty she saw. The Lark walked arm in arm with the man, like a bourgeoisie, with her hair under that grand bonnet, spilling over her shoulder like golden silk. In her long white dress, its hem brushing against the cobblestones just so, the sun shining off of that ash blonde hair, she looked like some kind of … angel. She was beautiful, and Éponine hated her for it.

The man said something and she laughed, an almost musical tinkle of a laugh. " … How clever you are, Papa … "

_Papa? I do believe she had no father. The man isn't her father, is he? The Man in the Yellow Coat wasn't, but I'm quite sure this is him. _As the Lark glanced over her shoulder, Éponine ducked behind a streetlight.

She followed the pair, stealthy and careful in her way, to their home, a grand-looking home with a wrought-iron gate and a lovely garden with a stone bench and a small well. A small angel statue stood guard near the fence. The man pulled a key from his coat pocket and unlocked the gate. The Lark stepped daintily by and he shut it hurriedly behind him. Éponine noted, with a frown, the way he looked around before smiling and turning to the Lark. The two stepped inside, shutting the door to the fine home behind them, and that was the last she saw of either of them.

She didn't want to tell M'sieur Marius. Not yet. She wouldn't be able to stand it. He'd torn at her heart, sewn it back together, and yet again teared at the seams, all the while not even realizing what he was doing. And she, Éponine, crafted a happy image of herself just for him. But he never saw her there.

Tomorrow. She'd tell him she'd found the Lark tomorrow. But she wouldn't be able to return home tonight. She'd find a place in an alleyway, and perhaps that would be for the better.

**::**

_June 7, 1831_  
_364 days left  
_

Grantaire staggered into the Musain at precisely five in the evening. He collapsed at the bar and slid a Franc across the counter. "The best you might purchase with this, if you please," he slurred.

The bartender took his coin and turned away to fix a drink. As soon as Grantaire had himself a bottle of the finest wine he could purchase with one Franc, he stumbled up the stairs and into the hidden attic room. Enjolras was already there, hunched over a table and thumbing through a stack of pamphlets. Gavroche was leaning over his shoulder, his bright eyes following Enjolras's every move. The boy admired the young man, admired his passion for the cause.

"But what might _I_ do?" the scruffy ten-year-old was saying.

"Nothing for the time being, seeing as you cannot read," Enjolras muttered distractedly. "Organize a little rally in the streets for me, or something similar. But not now, boy – we've a meeting in twenty minutes, or didn't you know?"

"I'm here more often – oh! 'R!" Thrilled, Gavroche turned away from Enjolras and dashed around the table to join the 28-year-old. Plopping down in the chair next to him, he reached for the bottle clutched so preciously in the drunk's hand. Grantaire pulled it out of his reach.

"Wine's not for children."

"I shall be eleven soon."

"When?"

"In December."

"It's June, young one," Grantaire chuckled. "You shan't be eleven for a while yet."

Gavroche pouted, but when the door opened he brightened visibly. A girl stood hovering in the doorway, her long black hair framing her gaunt face. Éponine smiled at her brother, then spoke up and asked, "I … suppose M'sieur Marius isn't around, then?"

"No, he _isn't_," Enjolras replied. "He is late quite frequently, but while you are here you may help with our meeting as you wait. We shall need some help sewing cockades. Can you sew?" He did not look up as he said this, but Gavroche leapt to his feet and took his older sister's hand.

"Yes, 'Ponine … " the young boy wheedled. "Oh, _do_ stay! You must! Ya can sew, can't you? Will you help make some cockades till Marius arrives?" He dragged her over to a table and presented her with a pile of fabric. Pieces of cloth blue, white, and red, the colors of the French flag.

Éponine stared at the fabric in front of her and looked away. "Oh, no … I mustn't. I mean, well … I shall wait for M'sieur Marius outside, all right?" She ruffled Gavroche's scraggly hair. "I'm sorry."

His face, so bright and childishly joyful before, crumpled like a rose in winter. "Oh …" the ten-year-old said softly. "All right. But, shall you see me again soon? Won't you visit me? I hardly ever see you around no more. Come see me soon. Please?"

Éponine took a careful breath. "All right," she said slowly, softly. "Tomorrow. I promise you. You may take me to the opera, just like you've always wanted to. But I really must be going now … I'm sorry …" She stood and hurried, out the room and down the stairs.

She nearly ran into M'sieur Marius on her way down the stairs. Second time in the past couple of days. Éponine nearly tripped on her way, but his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to safety.

"Careful," he said, then blurted, "Have you found her? Oh, please tell me you have! These past two days, I've seen nothing but her and her angelic beauty. I cannot live without the girl."

Éponine swallowed. "Yes," she croaked. "Yes. Yes, I've found her."

Marius' arms flew around her once more, and this time he pulled her close into an embrace. The feeling of _him_ made Éponine feel pleasantly light-headed. Or, it would have had her heart not been crying out in pain.

"Thank you," Marius said, and then for good measure he said it again. "Oh, _thank_ you … do you know her name?"

"No," she lied hoarsely. "I only know where she lives. Follow me."

**::**

"It is getting late, Cosette," her Papa called from the house. "Do come in soon."

"_Soon_, Papa," she called back from her perch on the edge of the well. "Don't worry. It isn't terribly late … the sun hasn't set yet. Please, just give me a few more moments. I beseech you." She turned away from the window as the shutters closed. Her Papa would allow her a little while longer. He always did.

Cosette leaned her chin in her hand, gazing beyond the gate. She'd been thinking about the gentleman from the Jardin du Luxembourg the other day. In fact, he had been taking up quite a lot of space in her mind since that first day she saw him. But she was being silly, of course. She'd seen him for less than a minute in a park, didn't even know his name, and would most likely never see him again. And yet … just what _was_ it about the young man she found so gripping, so very attractive?

He'd been ravishingly handsome, for one. She couldn't deny that. His light brown curls and those bright green eyes, the copious freckles covering his face. The way he'd _looked_ at her, as if she was the only thing in the world. A look that made her feel warm inside. But it was so much more than that, really. Cosette had been fascinated by him – his attire clearly suggested wealth, and yet, he'd been walking arm in arm with a ragged street girl as though she were a lady with seemingly no qualms. He seemed to like her, but he didn't seem to love her as he might a wife. Not after the way he'd looked at Cosette.

Cosette shook her head. She was being so very silly. She was _never_ going to see the gentleman again. He didn't know anything about her – where she lived, or how very strict her Papa could sometimes be (she couldn't even imagine how he would react if she told him she might be in love), or for Heaven's sake, he didn't even know her name!

And Cosette knew nothing about him. She didn't know where he lived, or what his family might be like. And she did not know his name either. She was like a giggling schoolgirl fawning over a knight in shining armor.

And so it was that at this precise moment, something fell in a heap at her feet. Cosette let out a yelp of fright and surprise as she shot to her feet, hand clasped over her mouth. The figure who'd landed so clumsily in front of her, and she was looking down into that very face – freckles and all.


	4. Is He Still Young?

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Important Author's Note: I will be offline from Wednesday, May 7th to Sunday, May 11th due to a field trip for an extracurricular club at school. (Latin Club competition.) Most likely I won't be able to update again before I go, but I should be able to update somewhat shortly after my return. Thank you.

Also, yes, I had to have a conversation between Éponine and Enjolras in there. Just because this isn't an Enjonine … doesn't mean I don't have a weakness for it and some of my other Les Mis stories won't be Enjonine. But yes. This won't develop into a romance, sadly, but I just couldn't resist putting in a little exchange.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Four: Is He Still Young?

_June 7, 1831_  
_364 days left  
_

How peaceful a garden can be at twilight. The faint glow emitted by the stars and the pale moon illuminated the flower petals and set them awash in a silvery light. Crickets chirped a symphony, the only sound and the entire garden seemed frozen with a blissful silence. The house just beyond was still, all shutters drawn, oil-lamps unlit and candles out. Valjean was the only figure awake, but one wouldn't think so at first glance. With no movement and no lights, who would be up and about? But there are some people, like Jean Valjean, who only felt safe to live at night.

But in the small world that was 55 Rue Plumet, with the odd man and his daughter living in the apartment on the second floor, the unpleasant, cold middle-aged couple on the ground floor, and the kind, elderly landlord on the third, there was a sort of life right now. That life could be found in the garden. Two young figures, a young man and lady, she perched on the edge of the well and he lying on the ground. He gazed up at her as though she were an angel, and he had caught her and brought her down from heaven.

The two stared at each other for what seemed to be an eternity. And then Cosette realized that the gentleman she didn't even know the _name_ of was here, in her garden. She opened her mouth to scream. Why was here and how might he have found her? She didn't know and nor did she care to. But just before the shriek could escape her lips, the young man hurriedly scrambled to his feet and took hold of her hands. "Please. Mademoiselle. Don't scream."

She stared into those green eyes. Somehow, she felt as if he would do her no harm, and she somehow felt safe. "Very well," she whispered. "I shan't scream. But you must tell me who you are." Then, with a smile, she added, "and how you found me, Monsieur."

His hands found a lock of her hair. "My name is Marius Pontmercy," he said quietly. "And I do believe I followed an angel."

Cosette shook free with a faint laugh. "All right then, Monsieur Pontmercy. I _see_. Now, why don't you tell me how you _truly_ found me?"

Monsieur Pontmercy seemed to be in a trance. "I've told you, mademoiselle. I followed an angel." Here he turned red in the face and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. I'm doing this all wrong. I do not even know your name."

Cosette smiled at him, a slight half-grin. "Cosette," she told him. "My name is Cosette."

"That's a beautiful name. It's an angel's name. Dearest Cosette … I do believe I might very well be in love with you." Marius stared at the creature before her and felt his heart melt. Or, at the very least, what was left of it, for Cosette had stolen it a very long time ago. Yes, he reflected, women's names ending in '_ette_ truly were the finest sounding names.

The angel before him bowed her head, causing a halo of that golden hair to fall in her eyes. He lifted a hand to brush it away, and she allowed him to do so. Once that strand of fine, spun gold was tucked safely behind one ear, Cosette spoke. "I … I believe I might be in love you, as well, Monsieur Pontmercy," she said breathlessly.

He leaned in to kiss her, and she closed her eyes. Their lips brushed against each other just so before a cry was heard from the house. "Cosette! Cosette, my child, it's getting late! Come in now, darling!"

Cosette nearly leapt away from Marius, her eyes widening. "I must go," she said hastily. "Forgive me. And you must go, too! If my Papa sees you … " She gathered her skirts and took off in the direction of the house with a bright, chipper call: "Yes, I'm coming, Papa!"

Marius stared after her, at the way her locks of hair swished behind her as she went. When Cosette arrived at the door, she turned, offered Marius a small smile, and waved him away. He wished he could have stayed with her longer, and yet … here he turned regretfully and turned back to the fence, which he promptly climbed.

Éponine was waiting for him on the other side. She'd been leaning against a streetlamp, watching him the entire time. When Marius appeared, she stepped out from her hiding place and announced quite bluntly, "I watched you with her."

Marius flushed at this. He felt awkward enough before Cosette, but to think that he'd been watched by Éponine as well! "Heavens, Éponine. Must you have?"

"Perhaps I didn't need to. But I did so. I watched the entire time, you know. You seem to be in love with her, M'sieur Marius."

The young student took her by the hands, spinning Éponine around in a circle. At this the sixteen-year-old laughed in delight, and when at last she was let go, she allowed herself to stumble and fall in his arms. Arms that would hold the Lark many times to come, but for now, were hers. "I am in love with her, Éponine," Marius said seriously. "And you my very own dear, good friend who brought me to her."

Éponine righted herself as he let her go. Marius offered her – "his very own dear, good friend" – one last hasty smile before hurrying away down the street. Éponine watched him go. M'sieur Marius continued at the same steady pace all the way before, at last, she turned on her bare heel and headed the other way.

**::**

_June 21, 1831_  
_350 days left  
_

Éponine had not show up to meet Gavroche the following day. The ten-year-old had waited by his stone elephant the entire day, but with no sign of his elder sister. He had waited all of the next day, too, but when he still did not see her, he gave up. Gavroche didn't go to the Gorbeau tenement – he had no intention of running into either of his parents. His only hope of meeting her was at the Café Musain.

It had been two full weeks since Gavroche last saw his sister now. He sat perched atop a barrel in front of the café, drinking from a glass of cool water the barman offered him. A meeting was due to beginning in a few hour's time, and he had every intention of being there quite early. But there was still a while to go, and he'd wait a long time before even Enjolras showed up.

The shouts of children playing caught his attention and tempted him, as they would any child. That is the strange way of children; they are drawn to each other so easily, like a fish to a worm. The joyful cries drew Gavroche reeled him in, and so he drained his water glass and hopped down off his barrel. Placing the glass down, he began to walk down the street, followed the sound. It sounded to him like a very thrilling and rowdy game was taking place, and he wished to take part in it.

The children in question were found just around the corner, in the main square. There were five of them: three boys and two girls. They were kicking a bottle swaddled in cloth about, often shoving each other to the ground in attempt to reach the "ball". Except for the blonde girl, who couldn't have been a day older than seven, all the children were older than Gavroche. But when the ten-year-old appeared, they stopped their game.

"If you join, we'd make six," the eldest boy declared. "We might be able to have even teams then. Join the girls, then. You're just a kid."

Gavroche scowled. He had no desire to be grouped with the girls and lose, simply because he was younger. "Oi!" he protested indignantly, sticking out his chin in defiance. "I shall join the team I'd like to, thank you. If we have two girls and one kid on one team, we'd certainly lose. No, gents, don't we want the teams to be fair?"

"We could win!" the littlest girl whined, but was immediately silenced. The biggest boy, perhaps fifteen or even sixteen years old, glared at Gavroche.

"So, yer tryin' to be manly, are ya? Fine. Join our team. But we older boys play rougher. Ya've been warned." He crossed his arms over his chest. Addressing the next-youngest boy, he added, "Pierre! Ya can join the girls."

Pierre, a ragged boy of about twelve with shaved blond hair and wearing an over sized coat twice his size, stomped one bare foot in protest. "No! I ain't playing with no girls."

"Ya will if ya wanna play. This boy 'ere's gonna be on our team t'day," the leader said coldly. "It's your choice, of course. If ya don't wish to play, then leave."

Resigned, Pierre joined the girls.

The game was delightfully rough. It had no strict set of rules, but involved chasing the bottle around and kicking it, trying to prevent members of the other team reaching it. There was quite a lot of pouncing and shoving and wrestling, everything any ten-year-old boy could wish for. Gavroche was surprised that even the girls played rough. Heavens, even the youngest (who, he learned, was named Aimée and was barely over seven). He'd been inches from the bottle when she pounced on him with a shout, her little fists pounding his chest until he surrendered, laughing.

But not a long ways into the game, Gavroche caught sight of a figure walking down the road. There were shoes on her feet this time, a pair of black leather boots whose soles were almost completely detached and dragged on the cobblestones. She wore a different dress, though it was just as ragged. This one was of a burgundy hue and around her thin shoulders she wore the same green plaid shawl. Her dark hair hadn't been combed in a week, and there were fresher bruises on her arms as well as the red mark of a slap on her cheek. But all the same, it was 'Ponine and Gavroche abandoned his play to rush to her side, shouting her name.

At the sound of it, she turned, and her grim face widened into a smile at the sight of her brother. "Why, Gavroche! I've not seen you in a while."

He moved to throw his arms around her waist, then paused. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stuck out his chin and glared at her. Being in such a position made him feel quite grown-up and mature. "You did not show up to meet me. I was to take you to the opera. And I did not see you for two weeks. Where have you been?"

Brown eyes slid away from blue. "I was busy. I'm sorry. And then, Thénardier had me work at several arduous tasks for him. Why, I didn't even see M'sieur Marius at all. I couldn't, Gavroche. I'm sorry."

He scrutinized her for the longest time with narrowed eyes, forcing her to squirm in guilt until at last she bent down to his level and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him on the forehead. "I'm terribly sorry, Gavroche."

Gavroche relented, his arms going around her too. Brother and sister stayed in that position of quiet, peaceful, love, until at last Éponine broke it by pulling away. She ruffled her brother's blond hair as she rose. "You may take me to the opera tomorrow. This time, my dear brother, that's a promise."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Now, is there to be a meeting at the Musain today? I was hoping to speak to M'sieur Marius. He hasn't been about the Gorbeau place, you see." Éponine glanced over at the direction of the café. It was true she hadn't seen M'sieur Marius about over the past two weeks. And it was true that over the past two weeks, her father and Montparnasse had made her life a living Hell. Or, even more so than it usually was.

Gavroche lifted a shoulder. "No, I've not seen him at all about the Musain. Not for the past two weeks. We have a meeting every day, and I include today in this list. Marius has not arrived for a single one, and Enjolras is now quite cross."

Here, his words were cut off by a well-irritated shout of the biggest boy he'd been playing with previously: "Oi! Ya gonna come play or ain't ya?!" To this, Gavroche responded with a shout of, "Ain't!" and the other children resumed their play.

The ten-year-old turned his attention to his sister. He added to his previous comment: "If you wish to, ya can speak t' Enjolras. By the way. Why is it you call him M'sieur Marius? He's your friend, ain't he? He's mine. I needn't give Marius such a title."

As if by unspoken agreement, the two began to walk towards the Musain in search of Enjolras, who was in fact quite certain be in the upstairs room by now. As they went, Éponine replied to her brother's inquiry: "Because he is a gentleman."

Gavroche scoffed. He'd never heard a more ludicrous statement in his life! Marius, a gentleman? The very thought was laughable. "Marius? That's a laugh! He's no more a gentleman than I am."

Éponine swatted him teasingly over the head. "M'sieur Marius can read," she teased him. Then, she added more softly, "I do wish you'd let me teach you. I remember how to read, from when we lived in Montfermeil. I still know how to read."

To this, Gavroche scoffed again. "Who needs readin'? I've made it ten – and a half – years without needin' to read a single word, and I'll make it many more years to come."

**::**

He shouldered the door open, his steps heavy footfalls on the wooden floor. He stumbled, half-blind, to the table, sure he was disturbing the customers below with his pounding. At last he dropped the heavy stack of papers down with a thwack so loud it was sure to have caused a natural disaster in some other part of the world.

Enjolras breathed heavily, surveying the room. It was an hour before the meeting was due to start, well before anyone else would arrive. He'd spent the day printing more pamphlets, and working away at an article which might never be published, but would be distributed. Plopping down into a chair, he reached for one of Grantaire's abandoned bottles of wine and took a sip before beginning to file through his article, reading and re-reading it. The young man had only read the article twice through when the door whipped open. Gavroche entered with his usual air of childish cockiness, plopping down into a seat next to Enjolras and putting his feet up on the table. But this time, he had a girl with him.

She was a bit younger than Enjolras was, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age. She was of an olive complexion, with a worn-looking dress on and weather beaten boots on her feet. A ragged plaid shawl was pulled tightly around her shoulders and her face had that impoverished, hollow look about it one saw so often in the slums. Her thin arms were crossed tightly, almost as if she were protecting herself from something. It took Enjolras a moment to place just where he'd seen that face before. "Aren't you – "

"My big sister," Gavroche interjected with a wave of his small hand. "Éponine. She wishes to speak with ya." He jerked his chin at Enjolras. "Be good to her."

Enjolras shoved his stack of papers out of the way and gestured at the seat nearest him, indicating that Éponine should sit. After a moment's pause, the girl did so, placing herself gingerly on the edge of a chair. More silence, which Éponine finally broke by saying, "Gavroche. Out."

He flew to his feet in protest. "What? What's this I hear? Why?"

"Out," she repeated more forcefully. Gavroche huffed and stomped out of the room and down the stairs in the temper only children can muster. All the way down he could be heard muttering to himself: "Out … why must I leave? … this is silly … it's me who runs this town, she'll see … I brought her to Enjolras meself … "

Éponine offered Enjolras a grimace of a smile. "Forgive my brother. He's often quite saucy, and I can only pray he is mild-mannered in your presence treats his friends with respect. That being, yourself and the others."

The mere thought of Gavroche being mild-mannered was ridiculous, and Enjolras snorted a rare laugh. He shook his head. "That brother of yours is too bold by half! All the same, he's a kind, good, child, bless his cocky little soul. Very devoted to our cause. Surely he's told you of our meetings? And, Mademoiselle, if you wished to join us we'd be all too happy to accept you."

Éponine shook her head. "I'm afraid I cannot, thought yes, Gavroche tells me of all his meetings in great detail. I know that he is very passionate. However, I have come to discuss other matters with you."

The disappointment was evident on Enjolras' face as he leaned back. "Very well. Name the matter."

Here Éponine leaned forth, as if discussing very secretive matters that no other ears could hear. "I've come to speak to you about M'sieur Marius Pontmercy."


	5. Fairy Story Villains

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: Terribly sorry about the late update. Think it's been about a fortnight! The truth is, after getting back from that Latin Club competition, I started traveling with the Doctor through time and space, and the TARDIS missed by a few days … sorry about that! Hopefully the Doctor will be fixing her right now while I work.

Also, please note that Pride and Prejudice was published in 1813.

* * *

Chapter Five: Fairy Story Villains

_June 21, 1831_  
_350 days left  
_

Inside the Musain, customers gathered around the bar gulping down cups of beer and wine. The café pulsed with life and laughter. The barmaid, a young and curly-haired blonde, scrubbed down counters while being bold enough to lower the hem of her neckline just so, causing the men to whoop and applaud. These would be the men of the working class, several who ambled in with faces still streaked in dirt and ash. In the back corner, nearer the window, the wealthier customers turned away from the scandal, utterly repulsed. Newspapers were held pointedly in front of faces, hands creeping out only to sip at cups of coffee or tea. The ladies held fans in front of their faces, also thoroughly disgusted, and whispered to each other of the new gossip and, oh! What might Mademoiselle Something's friend say when she found out?

Amidst this blaring of strange combinations of life, a group of street urchins ran in. Their tiny, soot-covered hands grabbed the biscuits and croissants off the plates of the rich customers. In the blink of an eye, the children were gone again, the only signs of their presence being the shouts of the infuriated upper-class: "Why, you little devils!" "The nerve of them!" "Get yourselves back here this instant, little rats!"

And in a room upstairs, a room that most of the customers didn't even know existed, sat two young occupants. They stared at each other for what must have been a minute before finally, Enjolras responded to the young woman – not so much a young woman as a girl, really – in a hesitant sort of tone: "You wish to speak to me of Marius? Very well. What of him?"

Éponine shifted in her chair. "He is my good friend. And I wish to know if you have seen him or not. Myself, I've not seen M'sieur Marius in quite some time. And … " – she took a deep breath – "I was hoping you could tell me if you've seen him at all."

"No," Enjolras responded. "We have had meetings nearly every day, but indeed, in the past two weeks I have not seen him once. Marius simply doesn't arrive any longer. But if he ever arrives … "

Éponine smiled wryly. "Tell him to come when he wishes to. If he would, of course." Her brown eyes flickered away. What was she doing? How silly of her, to speak to Enjolras and hope he would somehow find Marius! But she'd bothered coming all this way. There was no turning away now. "And I do believe," she added, "there is something you must know."

Enjolras nodded slowly. "All right, Mademoiselle. Tell me."

"He's in love," Éponine said quietly. Hastily she added, "Not with me. With another. A young lady. Rich, bourgeoisie. You might want to know."

Enjolras sighed heavily. "In love, you say? Well, then. It's no wonder he's not come to the meetings! Merciful heavens! Very well, then. Thank you, Mademoiselle." He stood, and Éponine knew he wanted her to leave as well. She also stood, tucking her chair in.

"I shall part," the words slipped out of Éponine's lips in a tumble. "But … tell him for me, if he does come."

Enjolras didn't seem to hear her. He nodded and waved her away. As she darted lightly down the stairs, he called after her, "Send that brother of yours up here!"

It wasn't until she was gone he regretted sending her away like that. Surely, she could have attended the meeting. Helped to spur and plan the great revolution, the promise he could see so clearly but never reach. He could have convinced her. Ah, well. He would need to speak to Gavroche about that.

Meanwhile, Éponine passed through the doorway, nearly bumping into a man who was entering in. "Forgive me," she muttered, not even glancing over her shoulder until she was a little ways out of the café. It was then she got a good look at him.

The man was tall, his shadow stretching out over the cobblestones like that of some kind of terrifying creature. And the man himself was like a shadow, his police inspector's hat hiding his face as he, too, glanced back at her, and his dark coat stiff and crisp and proper. To Éponine, the man – the police inspector – looked rather like one of the villains she came to loathe as a child, the ones which belonged in the pages of her fat books of fairy stories. The man was like some kind of bad omen, Azelma would say.

Azelma believed in omens.

But Éponine now knew there were no villains in fairy stories. The only villains she knew – the only real and true villains – were her father and Montparnasse. Both of whom she'd trusted as a child, in that naïve way of children, and both of whom had betrayed her. Everybody else was just a human. A flawed, broken, human. Some of them might even have been terrible people. But they were terrible humans, not fairy story villains.

When she was young, after the Lark left and Papa began to drink more, she used to think that one of her fairy story villains had escaped its pages and taken possession of his soul. But now, in her eyes, he'd been the fairy story villain from the very beginning.

Éponine stared at the police inspector – the Shadow Man, Azelma would say – until at last he turned away and entered the café. Éponine, too, turned away.

She spied Gavroche seated atop the barrels in front of the café. Her brother sat with his little legs swinging, sipping from a cup of water. He didn't look her way; in fact didn't seem to notice her, as he stared ahead, taking in his surroundings. The people walking by. Éponine watched him in that semi-peaceful state for a minute or two, then sat next to him on the smaller barrel.

Gavroche glanced over, and, at the sight of his sister, smiled slightly. Then, as if remembering the way he was dismissed, he pouted and turned away. "I have had three glasses of water since you threw me out."

"Oh! Well then, that's certainly quite excellent," Éponine teased him, "for having water is very good for the health. It soothes the parched throat, too." As if in reminder, her throat suddenly felt a bit drier. She didn't often have water, for the water from the little well outside of the Gorbeau place was always too dirty for drinking, and besides, she'd not been by there for a few days. Without meaning to, she rubbed at her throat and swallowed.

Gavroche caught the motion. That is the way with brothers and sisters. They will notice your slightest movement, and what it means, even if it is incomprehensibly subtle. The flicker of sadness or fear in the eyes. The slight hunching of the shoulders. The light, free steps of happiness. Or the slight massaging of the throat, the tiniest swallow indicating thirst. He caught the way his sister swallowed, and held out his glass to her.

A grateful Éponine took the glass and swallowed the water in one swig. The sweet coolness tickled her throat as it went down, blessing the dryness. She longed for more, but didn't say anything. Instead, she handed the glass back to her brother.

"'M'I allowed in there now?" Gavroche muttered. "Or are ya still havin' private conversations with Enjolras? What were ya talking to him about, anyhow? I should like to know."

Éponine smiled and ruffled his overlong blond hair. "If it was not private, I would not have asked you to leave. Now, my dear brother, you may go up if you wish. Careful how you go, though – I saw a police inspector entering. You wouldn't want him to discover the secret room."

Gavroche nodded, hopping down from the barrel and slipping into the café door, a little shadow himself. But he, unlike that fairy story-esque police inspector, was a quick one that would disappear the instant the sun shone away from it. The police inspector was a looming one, an ominous presence.

Éponine stared into the doorway, watching for her brother. From here, she could just see the stairs leading up to the secret upstairs room the barman allowed les amis to conference within in private. All she saw was a flash of his blue jacket before he was gone again. Then, she hopped down, wrapping her thin shawl tighter round herself, and started walking back to the Gorbeau tenement.

She didn't want to return, of course, but she had to. She had Azelma to look after. Azelma, who had probably endured another beating or two while her big sister was away. A very dark region in the back of Éponine's mind wondered if Montparnasse had done to her sister what he often to did to her. But she dismissed it the moment it arose. She refused to believe he'd do those things to Azelma. He'd never shown any interest in doing such things to her. It was only Éponine he cared about, in that sense. She didn't know the name for the things Montparnasse did. She knew there was a name, but she didn't know what it was. Didn't want to.

She also had a vague love for her mother. She'd stopped properly loving her mother a long time ago, for Madame Thénardier wasn't much better than her husband. But she, unlike her husband, showed some compassion (if very little) for her children. Or her daughters, anyhow. She'd never given a care about Gavroche at all, hadn't bothered naming him even. Everybody just called him The Baby, until, after they went to Paris and he ran away, Éponine ran into him again a year later. He was no longer The Baby. He had a name now, a good name, and was known by it to everyone.

Gavroche.

Her mind wandered as she walked the long walk to the Gorbeau building. She tried not to think about M'sieur Marius and the Lark. That hurt much more than any slap or blow her father could deliver, or any terrible and nameless thing Montparnasse could ever do to her. But her mind reached that place anyway, the sharp pain of a dagger's blade to her very soul and heart. She thought of the Lark, now so beautiful, too beautiful, giggling and kissing M'sieur Marius. She thought of how perfect they would be together, how easy it would be for them to marry. Both wealthy, in good neighborhoods, where the only dirt and scum that existed was that of bold young urchins desperate enough to beg or steal amongst the rich.

She wondered if that was where M'sieur Marius was right now, and had been the past two weeks. At the door of the Lark. Surely, he was. The way he'd looked at her … as if she was the only thing left in the universe, and was his. Of course, he must have been. She could have gone to look for him there, near the lamp-post just in front of the house. But she didn't. It would hurt too much.

On the other hand, if Éponine was to ever see him again soon … yes, it seemed that was the only option. The only dreadful option.

Tomorrow. She'd wait there tomorrow.

And she'd go home tomorrow too. She wouldn't be able to bear another night at home, with her father and Montparnasse and that dreadful gang.

There is only so much hurt someone can take.

**::**

_June 22, 1831_  
_349 days left  
_

Cosette spent much more of her time in the garden now, especially in the evenings. On the nights she was not permitted to, she would leave her candle on in the bedroom and stay up late "reading." If the faint glow of candle light was visible, Marius would throw a stone with the aim of an expert to bounce against her window, and she would rise. These were the days she couldn't speak to him, but could lean out the window and they might spend an hour just staring at each other.

Today was a day she could be outside. And now that it was June she could even read outside before it was too late and dark. So she sat on the little stone bench, a French translation of Pride and Prejudice open on her lap.

She happened to finally look up, and there was her Marius, at the gate. Cosette laughed slightly and stood up, darting swiftly and quietly over. "Marius!" she whispered. "How long have you been standing there, pray tell, watching me?"

"Not terribly long," Marius replied softly. He took hold of the bars of the fence and began to pull himself up. Cosette stepped back, watching in bemusement as Marius climbed the fence. He nearly fell at the top, but managed to successfully climb over and land – more gently than the first time – in front of her. When at last on sturdy ground and on the right side of the fence, he wrapped his arms around her waist and added, "Besides, I like to watch you read. You seem so very intrigued and fascinated! What, pray tell, are you reading?"

Cosette went to the bench and picked up her book, offering it to him. "Pride and Prejudice," she answered. "Do you know it?"

"Isn't it English?" Marius asked with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, heavens. Don't tell me you speak English, too!"

She laughed softly. "Why, of course I don't speak English. Don't be silly. If you look, you shall see that I am reading it in French. Now, you were telling me a story last night before Papa interrupted … oh, wouldn't you continue?" The two sat on the stone bench, book forgotten, and Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder. "Do finish telling me that story," she begged.

Marius buried his nose in her hair, breathing in its sweet smell. She wriggled free and scowled before resting her head again. Unfortunately, it would seem fate did not wish for him to continue his story, the one he'd been telling of his friends last night. Indeed, watching them both seemingly with no shame was Éponine, her hands tightly gripping the bars of the fence as she peered at them.

It was Cosette who first spotted the waif of a girl. She lifted her head and blinked in surprise. "Marius," she whispered. "Marius, who is that?" Then, as if she feared he might not answer, she called out softly, "Hello? Mademoiselle? May I help you?"

The girl, as if only just noticing she could be seen, immediately stepped backwards and darted behind the nearest lamppost. A confused Cosette turned to Marius. "Marius, did you see that? Do you know who she is?"

Marius winced. "Yes … she's my friend. The one who helped me find you. I've not seen her in a while, but now I believe she must have followed me." He waited for anger, for her to accuse him of dreadful things. Of Éponine being a secret lover, a mistress. She'd demand to know if there where others.

But Cosette only blinked in confusion. "Oh. Well, if you must go … I'd understand. Besides, Papa shall want me inside shortly." She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Do come by tomorrow, though, wouldn't you?"

Marius didn't want to leave Cosette, but she was already standing to leave and so he nodded awkwardly, before approaching her gate and climbing it. He nearly did fall this time, hitting his knee against the cobblestones at the other end and ripping a hole in his pants. He winced slightly as he staggered to his feet. The wound stung and he stopped to inspect it. Marius was surprised to find a few deep, scarlet red beads of blood, which were slowly dribbling from the cut and staining his trousers.

"You'll want to hold a damp cloth over that." The sound of Éponine's voice startled him, and he looked up. She was there, watching him as she sat on the ground, resting her head against the lamppost.

Now, Marius cared for Éponine. He truly did. She was his very own, dear friend, and she'd given him his love for life. But he could not help but feel slightly frustrated with her for spying on him as she was. Cosette was his, his own private, secret angel, in their own private world, and Éponine felt like a bit of an intruder. Even if she was the one who showed him the door and gave him the key.

"Must you have watched me?" Marius scolded her as he rose to his feet again. Éponine hopped up and joined him, quickly falling into step beside him.

"I've missed you," she retorted bluntly. "Where have you been, M'sieur, these past two weeks? I didn't see you once. Not even once! I imagined you'd be here, so I waited. I wished to see you again, M'sieur Marius."

Marius sighed heavily, taking her small, grimy hands in his. "Dear 'Ponine, I understand. But if there is one thing I must beg of you, it is that you do not intrude in my privacies and personal life. You brought me to Cosette, and that is a debt I shall not ever be able to repay. But please. I pray you give me just a bit of … air."

The words sounded harsh and cruel as soon as they escaped his mouth, and he winced internally. But Éponine barely flinched.

Barely.

Instead, she dropped his hands and said softly, "You must place a damp cloth over your wound. Does it sting terribly?"

"Not very much, no."

"That's good," she murmured. "I am glad you're no longer in pain." Then, his sharp words already forgotten, she took his hands again and grinned broadly. It was that same grin he associated with Éponine now, one of real happiness mixed in with a boldness that pertained only to her. A smile with a strange sort of combination between the wisehood of an old woman, and an excited little child. "Let's run."

"Run? Where to?"

"To the Gorbeau tenement!" Éponine said pointedly. "Come on, then, run with me!"

And run they did, laughing, hand in hand, all pain behind them.


	6. Two Rebellions

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: A slightly shorter chapter this time, and it's a bit late, but hopefully you will still enjoy it.  
I recently heard that if you don't put disclaimers up, your story could be deleted, so I will start that now. I do not own _Les Misérables__, _as I have not recently become a genius storyteller from the 19th century. This does not, in any way, prevent me from singing _On My Own _at the top of my lungs in the shower.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Six: Two Rebellions

_June 22, 1831_  
_349 days left  
_

In the dead of night, even if it's still slightly light out, the only real life is that of the poor. The urchins, the beggars, the fallen women, what the rich thought of as the lowlife scum. And the people who'd be out so late at night, that lowlife scum, would walk with hunched shoulders and bowed heads, lives that could have been shut up inside of frail shells of bodies. The women would line up against the wall with nearly transparent skirts, clad in bright colors and hats and scarves that failed to reflect the dark misery that was their reality. The beggars would huddle underneath street lamps in clusters, hands stretching out in prayer to passersby that wouldn't spare a coin, either because they had no money to give away or, more likely, because they were unwilling to. The urchins, not all of whom knew to pick pockets, would hurry along and tug on coat-tails, begging for a crumb or two. More commonly, their little bodies would remain hunched against the wall of a building or under a bridge, never to move again.

Perhaps that is why Marius Pontmercy and Éponine seemed so out of place that night. Their hands intertwined as they ran, both of them laughing in such a fashion that was most questionable and shocking. It was not so much running, really, as it was stumbling, both of them doubled over and leaning on the other for support.

At last they arrived at the Gorbeau tenement. Stumbling to a stop, still laughing, they leaned against the wall of the decrepit building, sliding down to sit on the ground.

Éponine craned her neck up, taking in the sight of the stars above her. As a child, she'd never taken much interest in stars. Those days in Montfermeil, when everything that really mattered were her dolls and her dresses. But when the inn shut down, after Papa started drinking and turning angry fists on his two daughters and she stopped thinking of him as her father, she'd count the stars. She'd lie on her back, when they were living in the streets, sharing a ragged blanket with Azelma, and look up at the stars. Bright silver things in the blackness her life had become. She'd been barely over twelve years old, and she would spend her time trying to count those stars.

Sometimes she still counted them.

She and M'sieur Marius sat there in a gentle, tranquil silence, as if floating in bliss. But the walls of her world were shattered with the shouts coming from upstairs. Her father, of course. She could hear him from down here. He was shouting at Azelma, and Éponine could practically see the spit flying from his mouth, see his hands grabbing her younger sister and shaking her roughly.

Éponine said nothing as she hastily scrambled to her feet. M'sieur Marius glanced up at her. He knew where she going, and why. He, too, said nothing, as the sixteen-year-old hurried into the building and took the rickety steps two at a time. The door, as usual, was unlocked. She shouldered it open – the knob had fallen out a long time ago – and stepped inside. What she saw wasn't pretty.

Her father had taken hold of Azelma's skinny wrist and was now shaking the girl violently. She rocked back and forth like a limp rag doll, her eyes wide. She donned a black eye and there were bruises all down her pale little arms. Her auburn hair was a tangled mess, even more so than usual. Thénardier continued to shout at the poor girl, spit indeed flying from his mouth: "You stupid creature! How could ya – "

"Why, if it ain't our 'Ponine 'erself. Nice to see ya."

The cool, light words of Montparnasse cut the man short. Thénardier turned to look at Éponine, standing in the door frame. He dropped Azelma's wrist so suddenly the ginger girl fell backwards onto the bed.

"And where the bloody _hell_ have you been, eh?" His words were quiet. Éponine hated it when he got quiet. She made an effort not to let her voice break or tremble when she replied.

"I have been away. But now I have returned."

Thénardier approached his eldest child. "Kind of ya," he sneered. The slap came next, but it was not unexpected. Éponine winced slightly, her hand moving towards her cheek. She glared at the man in front of her, the man she could no longer even think of as her father. Still in his old uniform from when he was a sergeant, which had since soiled and gone ragged, his hair greasy, his cheeks a ruddy red from excessive drinking, the leer that always seemed to haunt his face.

Éponine turned away, sitting on the bed. Now she could look around the flat, at last. Azelma was huddled in the corner furthest from the window. Her mother was absent, as were the other members of the Patron-Minette. Only the omnipresent Montparnasse remained, lurking there. He flashed Éponine a grin that made her blood run cold.

"Well then," Thénardier muttered. "I've written a few letters. Now that yer back, ya can go out for me and send 'em. I couldn't 'ave yer sister deliver them on her own. Ya know how she is, 'Ponine, stupid girl'd get lost."

Éponine and Azelma said nothing. Both had long since gotten used to insults from their father. Instead, Éponine stood again and gathered the letters in question, which lay scattered across the scarred old desk, the wood rotting away just as her father rotted away, slowly but surely. Now she held one hand out to her sister. Azelma rose and took it.

It wasn't until they were outside that Éponine pulled her sister aside, hidden behind the well. M'sieur Marius was gone, most likely he would not return until morning. He usually left when her father acted at his worst.

"'Ponine?" questioned Azelma. "We must deliver Papa's letters."

"No, we shan't," was Éponine's blunt reply. "I should think I'm tired of having him order us around as he does." She took the envelopes, tore them in half, and tossed them into the well. Azelma could do nothing but let her mouth fall open in a small "O". After she seemed to have recovered somewhat from the initial shock of her sister's bold behavior, the elder continued: "I shall tell him all those people threw us out. Tell him that the old man chased us out, shaking a broom in his hand. I took a look at those addresses, they're all in bourgeois neighborhoods. I'm certain they would have thrown us out anyway."

"But … " Azelma still appeared to be struggling. "But Papa shall beat us! And where shall we stay overnight?"

"Somewhere," Éponine answered her simply. She took a long look at her younger sister. Closer up and in this lighting, Azelma looked far worse off than she had in the flat. She could see how swollen her black eye was, and she could see more of the bruises down her arms. If possible, she looked even thinner and smaller than she had the last time Éponine saw her.

Small, skinny, and pale, Azelma had always looked young for her age, especially since their arrival in Paris. Shortly before they'd sold the inn, she'd been sickly most of the time. But when she was about thirteen, she simply stopped growing. It was as if her growth had been stunted entirely. Éponine looked her sixteen years, even a little bit older than that, but Azelma looked closer to twelve. The auburn-haired girl would be sixteen in September, and a few weeks ago, she'd secretly whispered to Éponine once that she still hadn't begun her bleedings. This had concerned Éponine slightly – the brunette started _her_ bleedings when she was twelve.

She swallowed at the sorry sight that was her sister. But she put on a tight smile and held out her hand again. "Come. Let's see if we might find a bridge for under the night. Or perhaps we'll lodge with Gavroche."

Azelma's hazel-green eyes flickered back nervously to the house. In the window, the silhouette of their father could be seen, a black shadow against a pale golden glow that were the candles. "What if he sees us?"

"He won't. At least, he won't if we don't stay about here."

Azelma's eyes lingered on the pacing shadow a moment longer before nodding and following her sister. They began to walk down the dirt path. Before long they, too, were just shadows in the night with nothing to hint that they'd been there before.

**::**

_July 11, 1831_  
_329 days_

The world seemed colder today, which was very odd for July, Gavroche reflected as he trotted through Paris' streets. A chill bit at his skin and he hugged his worn little blue vest closer. At last, he plopped down under the eaves of an abandoned warehouse. He knew where all the warehouses in the city were, and he knew which ones were already occupied. He'd sleep in this one overnight if it didn't have rats.

Yes, he knew every building there was to know. Which ones were drafty and which ones had rats. Which ones smelled and which ones were occupied. He always made note to avoid the old warehouse two blocks north of his elephant. There, a gang of bigger boys would lurk, and they often had clubs to beat intruders with. They'd given Gavroche a beating once, when he'd accidentally stumbled upon the old building and thought to sleep there for the night. The warehouse had been much warmer than his stone elephant, and he'd been sorry to leave it, but he wasn't about to let himself be beaten for the sake of meager warmth.

Besides, his stone elephant was much grander and far more impressive than that old warehouse was.

"If you kick a dog when he's just a pup," Gavroche had muttered to himself after being chased from their warehouse. "You'd do well to run for cover when that pup grows up."

That had been nearly two years ago, but he still remembered those big boys. Sometimes, Gavroche would still see them, hanging about their warehouse with their clubs at hand. They were still the same boys. And when he grew up, they had better run for cover. From him, the King of the Streets, all grown up.

He wrapped his blue jacket around himself tighter still, before getting back to his feet and resuming his trot to the Musain. He strolled into the café with an air of dignity and did not so much as look about on his way to the secret room upstairs. Only when he was at the door of the upstairs landing did he hear someone address him, and only then did the ten-year-old pause and turn.

"Boy!" the voice came again, gritty and rough with command. Gavroche leaned over the banister only to see a man looking right up at him. It was a police inspector, seated at the table nearest the stairs. Gavroche leaned further over the banister.

"Oi! Can I help ya with something?" he called. His heart started to beat a bit faster.

The inspector nodded. "What, pray tell, is that room up there? I have seen you climb these stairs nearly every day. Are there some kind of meetings going on?"

Gavroche's bright blue eyes narrowed slightly. He could tell something was amiss, and that this police inspector wasn't asking innocent questions. So the ten-year-old put on what he desperately hoped was a confused, innocent face and replied, "Nah, not than I know of. I'm bringin' some wine down to the bar. I work 'ere for the bartender sometimes."

The inspector gave him a long look before finally nodding. "I understand, boy. Thank you." Here he stood, offered a curt nod, and strode out of the café with his hands folded behind his back. The scruffy little urchin boy stared after him for what must have been a minute there on the stairs, until at last somebody bumped into him. He tripped and fell backwards, only to find himself staring straight up into the stern, irritated face of Combeferre.

"Gavroche!" the bespectacled student chided. "Don't you know better than to loiter on the stairs? Inside at once, now. What if someone were to discover us?"

Gavroche stood and followed Combeferre into the secret upstairs room. "I was being terribly busy, 'Ferre, being interrogated by a police inspector," the young boy defended himself haughtily, using the nickname Combeferre hated so much. Crossing his arms over his chest, he plopped down into a chair and scowled up at the young man. "Forgive me for being such a bother." He gave a sly glance over to Enjolras, hunched over his papers. Unfortunately, Enjolras was too absorbed in his own work to even notice anyone had entered.

However, Gavroche's words caught Combeferre's attention. The young man sat down in a chair opposite Gavroche, leaning forwards, concern wrinkling his brow. "Interrogated? Whatever happened?"

Gavroche shrugged. "Well, he asked me about the room. I told him it was where they kept the wine, and I was fetchin' it for the bartender, that I worked for him sometimes. He left after that."

Combeferre rubbed at his temples. "Well, that isn't good. Not good at all. We shall discuss this with Enjolras once the meeting begins and everyone else arrives. I do believe our Apollo has not even sensed our presence."

Indeed, Enjolras didn't respond and Combeferre looked around the room. There hadn't been a meeting in nearly a week. "I shall be performing some … renovations," Enjolras had explained. Now Combeferre saw what "renovations" meant.

Nearly every wall had been covered in pamphlets and posters, some of which were printed and some of which were hand-drawn. Where there weren't posters, there were French flags and all the tables had been covered in scarlet red tablecloths. _Vive la France_, _Vive la Republique_ and _Vive la Révolution_ had been written on the door in French flag-colored paint. Combeferre wondered if the bartender had given Enjolras permission to vandalize his storeroom so blatantly.

Well, he was Enjolras. So really, what could you expect?

Gavroche and Combeferre spent the next hour downstairs, in the café. Here the student would buy the urchin a dinner, which the child ate greedily. Afterwards, they returned to the room upstairs. This time Enjolras was pacing the room, and when they entered he looked up.

"Thank the heavens you're here," he said. "The meeting is due to start in precisely – " he looked at his pocket watch – "twelve minutes. And fifty-six seconds. Less than that now, of course. I was beginning to worry everyone would be late."


	7. You Have No Chance

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Update: I've changed the cover image. The old one was rather poor quality but I'm quite happy with this one. It features a screenshot of Samantha Barks as Éponine in the 2012 movie on top, and a still of Aaron Tveit as Enjolras at the bottom.  
**Edit 08/29/14: **cover image has been changed slightly for a different shot of Éponine. Text has also been altered slightly.

Disclaimer: I still don't own _Les Misérables_. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction about it. You'd have to be a bit pretentious to write fanfiction for your own invention, wouldn't you?

Brief Warning: This chapter contains some coarse language and brief implications sexual content, so reader discretion is advised.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Seven: You Have No Chance

_July 11, 1831_  
_329 days left  
_

By the time the rest of les amis finally arrived, save Marius, the secret room above the café was quickly lost to its usual atmosphere. There was wine being downed and the occasional drunken, slurred shout from Grantaire. Occasionally the cork of a champagne bottle would go flying in the air with a prominent pop! and this would cause the students to laugh and shout, ducking to avoid the airborne cork before it caused damage. Sometimes a student (namely Courfeyrac) would attempt to catch the cork, resulting in more laughter. They were all men in the room, but despite their mostly wealthy and upper-class backgrounds, these men were loud and obnoxious and rowdy. Jokes that would have caused the worst scandals were told. The room was noisy and bright, and in every sense of the word it was so very alive. Only Enjolras stayed out of the fun, hunched in the corner at a table while sorting through papers. All this happening before the meeting even began.

Needless to say, the leader in red was growing thoroughly irritated.

The twenty-two-year-old buried his face in his hands and groaned, turning over a leaf of paper and growling in frustration. He looked at his pocket watch again. Marius was now twenty minutes late. He resolved to give his friend an extra five minutes before starting the meeting without him, and in his eyes, that was quite a fair gap. He looked up again to see if Marius had arrived yet, but there was no such luck. He did, however, spot Gavroche trotting over to his corner. The young urchin sat down next to Enjolras and grinned brightly.

"What's the matter, then, Enj?" he chirped. "You don't look too 'appy."

Enjolras gritted his teeth. He cared for the boy, he truly did, just as he cared for all his friends. But sometimes the child's overly cheerful attitudes could irritate the student, especially when he was already in a notably poor temper. Enjolras was very much the sort of man who appreciated time alone once in a while. Moody and succumb to headaches, Gavroche's radiant cheeriness sometimes grated on him. More often that sometimes, really. Most of the time. Sighing heavily he answered, trying not to lose his patience, "Marius is late, as you well know. He is frustrating me quite a bit."

"Oh." Gavroche pondered this for a moment, then shrugged, token grin back on his face. "Well, he's usually late, isn't he? I wouldn't let it bother me. Always got his head in the clouds. Aw, he was like that even before Cosette."

This was probably true. Enjolras was the leader, Jehan the poet, but Marius was the dreamer. The statement of this fact made Enjolras smile lightly. "Well, yes. I do suppose that is true. But this gives him no excuse to be so very late every single – "

"Day?" Marius popped up behind them. "Yes. I am terribly sorry. I was … preoccupied. Forgive me." He offered an apologetic smile, one which was not mirrored on Enjolras' face. The leader's jaw was set in a tight line, the irritation clear in his eyes. He let out one long, heavy sigh before rising and banging down on the table once. This, he'd discovered, was the best way of catching their attention. Once he'd tried clapping his hands, but Jean Prouvaire declared it too "degrading". The poet was probably right, and Enjolras abandoned the practice.

"Marius has arrived. At last." Enjolras emphasized this with a pointed look at Marius, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as all eyes turned on him. He jumped right into the meeting, headfirst, as he did through life. Taking risks without thinking of the consequences. Enjolras was a man who acted on gut instinct, on his heart and on his belief.

"As you can see, I have conducted a few basic redecorations this room. Nobody comes up here, save the bartender. He is already perfectly supporting of our cause so I do not believe he shall mind terribly. It provides the atmosphere for our beliefs – "

"Basic?" Courfeyrac echoed with a laugh, one which was instantly cut off by Enjolras' glare. A pause, and the leader continued.

"I have been thinking of ways to spread information in regards to our cause in the most subtle manner possible. Quite naturally, the government shall attempt to oppress our cause and we needn't have that before the revolt even starts."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Actually … I do believe we may already be facing a bit of a problem."

Enjolras turned to face the bespectacled student. Concern flashed over his face, a disconcerting look to see on the leader in red, their image of hope and strength. After some hesitation, he said softly, "Proceed."

Combeferre nodded to Gavroche, who was sitting down beside him. Gavroche stood up and cleared his throat. "Got interrogated by a police inspector t'day. Didn't know his name, but he asked me 'bout the room, and I was very clever. I'm usually clever when it comes to these sorts o' things, see. It's cos I'm a terribly good liar, if I do say so meself." Gavroche smirked, trying not to look too pleased with himself. Sadly his friends didn't seem to agree with his great cleverness, so he huffed and went on. "Anyhow. I was very clever and I lied. Told him this was where the wine was kept, and I was fetchin' some for the bartender."

Enjolras chose to ignore Gavroche's brief monologue and instead responded with a frown. "Whatever did he ask you?"

"Just what I was doin' up there, what was kept in the room. He also asked if there were meetings." He shrugged. "I dunno. Probably he's still on our tracks. I mean, I don't know if he believed me or not."

"Which Inspector?" Enjolras demanded.

Gavroche shook his head. "I dunno. Didn't ask now, did I?"

Enjolras let out a whooshing breath and sat down. "If this is the case … we may very well be in more trouble than I imagined."

**::**

On the other side of the city, in a very different room, sat a very different group of people. There were just three of them – two men and a woman. One man was older, about sixty, and the other could be called a boy, being just over nineteen, with his sleek dark hair and a face that retained its youth. But despite his young face, he was cold with a half-smirk on his handsome visage and eyes that showed no care or love for those around him.

The one-room flat was grim in every sense that the room above the Musain was lively. It was the hangout of criminals and scum, and you could tell by just looking at it. There is a difference between the flat of men like Thénardier and the flat of the poor. The poor will do whatever they can to liven up the place. A single flower by the window. The curtains, if they are lucky enough to have them, wide open. Perhaps they will be cleaner.

This flat was different. No flowers in a glass by the windowsill. The shutters closed tight. The entire room stank of alcohol, the faintest trace of urine and vomit. Broken glass and discarded old paper littered the soot-covered floor. Only a single candle lit the room, used as a source of simply seeing, not one of light.

"She's been gone a full two weeks," growled Thénardier. "Both of 'em 'ave. And I'll need the two brats. Can't get by without them, fucking stupid though they are. And I don't know where the bloody _hell_ she could be."

"We'll be needing the brats back," Madame Thénardier added. "They can be useful. Sometimes." She'd stopped addressing her daughters as _the children_ or _the girls _long ago, and she'd never cared for her son. Now they were simply _the brats_. She might have loved them, a bit, somewhere in that wretched heart of hers. But it was hard to tell. Even she denied her affection for them, not because she was afraid of it, but simply because she truly believed such affection no longer existed.

Montparnasse leaned forward, that omnipresent coy smile teasing his lips. "Surely," he suggested nonchalantly, "the girls've gone to live with their brother? Probably know where the brat lives."

Thénardier huffed in frustration, slamming his fists down on the table, strongly enough to make all the furniture in the flat rattle. A bottle of liquor, almost entirely full, trembled slightly where it stood on top of a half-rotted dresser before falling in silent compliment to the ground. There, it shattered, its clear contents spreading. Nobody paid it any mind. "Yes! But I need to know _where_! And she'll be far more trustin' o' you than me!"

Montparnasse doubted this, but he smiled. "Anythin' to bring the children home," he purred. He stood gracefully, and sauntered out of the room. Briefly, he paused and turned. "Oh, and I'll be expecting' some kind o' payment for my services … _monsieur_." His voice dripped sarcasm.

Thénardier waved a hand. "Out with ya."

The young man obeyed, but as he made his way down the stairs, he already knew just what would be payment enough. And he knew that Thénardier wouldn't even care. Much. Because he was a man who put his gold in front of his family, and this was just another one of those cases. He wanted his daughters back not because they were his daughters and he worried for them, but because to be frank, they were useful to him. And if he could get them back, he really didn't care what condition they might be in.

Montparnasse knew this. And so he could have his fun.

**::**

Meanwhile, the two Thénardier sisters had been living with their brother. Of course they had; where else had they to go? Sometimes they would sleep in the stone elephant with him, the hole in its stone underbelly just wide enough for them to squeeze through. It didn't just house Gavroche's tiny form, for he looked closer to seven despite being ten years old. Other nights, like this one, they would go out barraging for food while he attended his precious meetings with his friends. He would always bring something back, and they would have a small crust or rotted vegetables. It was hardly a feast, but they got by, and for urchins, they were rich.

The nights were sticky and hot, and oftentimes Éponine would climb out of the elephant and lean against its stone legs while staring up at the sky. The stars were always there, watching her, guiding her, looking over her. Mocking her.

But they got by well, they really did. Gavroche was well used to the streets, such a clever young boy. A much brighter child that the rich kids who went off to their boarding schools in tiny suits, learning to recite tedious passages and memorize useless facts. He knew every corner, every shop. Who was willing to give out old scraps to the street children and who would chase them out with a shaking fist, or, more commonly, a broom. Gavroche knew everything. And his bright spirits – that grin on his face, his shining blue eyes when they weren't obscured by his overlong blond hair – helped to keep Éponine whole, helped that little bit of her that wasn't already dead mostly alive.

Azelma was quieter. And she complained. She always had been. She wasn't nearly accustomed to life on the streets as Gavroche and Éponine were, but she'd never adapted properly. Even so, she could be clever when she wasn't whining. Most of the time she did what she was told. But if there was one person Éponine had always had in her life, one person she trusted, it was her sister. And she couldn't have been happier that 'Zelma was there with her.

Tonight was cooler as Éponine and Azelma set out. Their brother secure at his meeting in the café, most likely not to return until the early morning, they trekked through the Paris streets with the darkness of the night-time as their cloaks and shields. There was a shop they knew, a shop they could steal from. The owner usually threw out perfectly good food in the back and they'd be able to get at it. Gavroche had told them about this place, how it was often the source of his meals, and Éponine wished she'd known of it before. Of course, her father wouldn't steal from the backs of shops. Not like this. No, his thievery and conning was a much grander scheme that resulted in gold. Not food.

They'd left a note in the elephant, which said nothing but the name of the shop. Gavroche couldn't read, but he could recognize shop names if he was familiar with the symbols of the letters.

The back of the shop was surrounded by barbed wire. The owner, naturally, was not fond of urchins picking through his food, and the sharp fencing usually warded them off. But not Gavroche.

"Just put on some gloves," he'd explained. "An' cut through the wire. It ain't tough, it's easy enough to cut through with a pocket knife if you're careful not to cut yer fingers." And he gave them his gloves. They were men's gloves, and too big for his tiny hands, but they fit Éponine.

Now, she crouched by the barbed wire fence, peering through. She held her pocket knife in one hand, an unlit match in the other. Éponine turned to look at her sister, who hovered nearby with the gloves.

"Azelma," she instructed, "give me the gloves and I shall cut through the wire if you hold the match."

Azelma shook her head stubbornly. "No. I shan't. I'm sure I wouldn't like to burn my fingers, and my hands are cold besides." As if to emphasize this, she brought her hands to her mouth and blew to warm them, rubbing her fingers together. It was warm out, but her fingers were numb and chapped with chill.

Éponine was concerned for her sister, but she sighed. "'Zelma, please. _Please_. We shan't find good food otherwise. If your fingers are cold, then the flame from the match will warm them. You know that."

But the auburn-haired girl only shook her head. "I don't want to burn them."

"Don't be silly. Give me the gloves and take the match!" Her voice rose, but only slightly for fear of waking the shopkeeper upstairs. Even so, the sharpness in her tone was enough to startle Azelma. The younger sister handed over the gloves, which she'd been holding tightly. In return, Éponine lit the match and gave it to her sister.

Azelma held it gingerly between her pale, numb fingers, at arm's length. Éponine flashed her a look of irritation before slipping the gloves onto her hands. Concentrating, she took her pocket knife and sliced through the wire. Once. She broke into a tiny grin.

She repeated the process, taking a small piece of barbed wire between her fingers and slicing through it with the knife. And again. Again. Again. She nicked her finger on the wire a few times, drawing blood, but it was no matter.

Hold. Slice. Hold. Slice. Hold. Slice.

How long she worked at the mindless task, Éponine didn't know. It was promising, but slow and tedious. The flame from the match died sometimes. Azelma would throw it away and Éponine would pull a new one out from her pocket and light it, which her sister would then gingerly take.

Éponine was still working, by the light of their fourth match, and nearly done too, when Azelma whispered suddenly, "'Ponine."

"What is it?"

"I do believe heard something."

"We are in Paris and certain to hear many noises. Bring the light back, then. I can't see." She turned back to her task. Hold. Slice. There was now a large hole, large enough to climb through if they were careful. Just to be safe, she started to make a few small slices in the wire surrounding the hole.

"'Ponine!" Azelma said again, more urgency in her voice this time.

Éponine huffed. "'Zelma …. "

Until her sister uttered five words that stopped her, made her blood run cold. Funny what five little words could do:

"It's him. 'Parnasse. _He's here_."

Éponine spun. And there he was, Montparnasse, the only man other than her father she truly loathed. That same terrible, teasing grin on his face as he leaned against the nearest lamp-post. He flicked out a small, but deadlier, pocket knife of his own, which glinted in the half-light menacingly.

"'Ello, 'Ponine," he said. "I've missed you, and Papa misses his little girls too. Won't you come home?"


	8. The First To Fall

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter is one of the more significant in the story. It does feature an important role for characters such as Enjolras and Éponine. Enjoy!

Brief Warning: The following chapter contains mild sexual content and suggestions of violence so reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: You might want to sit down for this. Deep breaths now, it's okay …. this may come as a bit of a shock, but I don't own _Les Misérables_.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Eight: The First to Fall

_July 11, 1831_  
_329 days left  
_

An upper-class neighborhood is dead silent at night, still and empty as if suspended in time. All the residents shut up in the safety of the pretty little shells that are their homes, shells filled with expensive mahogany furniture, velvet carpets, and silly little marble statues. And tonight, only one young man walked the streets, his footsteps against the cobblestones loud as they echoed through the streets, such was the quiet. His pace was light , but eager and quick. A wide grin which his friends would have teasingly referred to as "idiotic" lit his freckled face and he stared blankly ahead, stupidly and naïvely in love. And in a garden several blocks away, sat a lovely young lady waiting, eager and giddy, for the boy she loved.

Before too much time had passed, though, he was there. She wasn't reading today, much too excited to do that. And she saw his face, pressed through the bars, watching her with his token grin. "Marius!" Cosette exclaimed. She walked up to him just before he began to climb the fence. "You needn't climb it any longer. Papa has given me a key, which I shall be able to unlock from the inside now. He says he trusts me with it." And here she showed the key to him before putting it in the lock and the gate opened with a promising_ click_.

Marius stepped through, grateful he would be spared a night of awkwardly climbing the wrought-iron fence. One hand went around her slim waist as he leaned in for a kiss. She returned it, quickly, before gently pushing him away. "At the very least, wait until I have closed these gates!"

And she shut them, giving Marius a stern look. "How did your meeting go? I hope your friends weren't terribly cross that you were late." For Marius had been with her before he was late for that meeting, and when he briefly glanced at his pocket watch and had gone sprinting, he'd promised to return when it was over.

"Enjolras was cross," came Marius' honest retort. "Quite so too, I might add, but nobody else minded terribly."

Cosette giggled. "From what you have told me about your friend, I imagine he would have been rather frustrated." Taking his hand, she led him over to the bench. "Anyhow, I've news for you. Papa told me whilst you were out; he called me in for supper shortly after you left." Her grin was broad. "For the very first time, Papa shall be going out all day tomorrow, and is allowing me to stay at home. Alone! Ye gods! Can you imagine? You shall be able to come and spend the day inside the flat with me, and if you are gone by six he shan't find out." And she kissed him.

Marius, on the other hand, gently pushed her away, worry clear in his eyes. "But … won't your neighbors tell him?"

"Oh, heavens, no. Don't be silly. The landlord is quiet, he won't even notice, and if he does he would never tell. The man and woman downstairs have never said a word to either of us in all the eight years we've been living there." This having evidently pleased Marius, Cosette rested her head against his shoulder. "So you shall come tomorrow then?"

"Early tomorrow," he promised, but he was cut off. Another touch of her lips and the world was blotted out as everything faded into a memory and the rain droplets began to fall.

**::**

Azelma stared, her hazel eyes wide with a sort of dread. Éponine eyed Montparnasse with loathing and hatred, detestment to hide the fear. And he leaned against that lamppost, flicking his knife casually, as if it were a plaything. Éponine stood and edged away from the fence, warily pressing herself against the wall of the shop. Azelma scooted over to join her, unable to tear her wide eyes away from the young man. She was trembling slightly as the softest of whimpers escaped her.

"You don't want Papa to miss ya, do ya?" Montparnasse drawled. "'E's so worried, love." He stepped closer, his paces carefully placed and measured, flicking his knife in time with his movements. "Come on home."

Before Éponine could do anything, he had her pinned against the wall. One foot kicked out to give Azelma a casual kick to the side, and the girl fell with a yelp. He tossed his knife to the ground and, with his now free hand, he reached for the bottom of Éponine's skirts. The dress she wore was too small, and he didn't have to reach far down. She struggled, but he was too strong.

He was always too strong.

'Parnasse's hand stroked her inner thigh gently, cold fingers brushing against warm skin. The hand moved up her thigh and sidled up her waist, her back. Éponine writhed harder, and he shoved his elbow into her shoulder. The pain was sharp, pronounced, and sudden, the burst of a spark. She gasped aloud.

What Éponine did next was very sudden, acted upon under very quick thinking, very clever, and very stupid. Quickly, Éponine jerked up one knee, hitting him hard between the legs. Montparnasse howled, and loosened his grip. Just enough for her to run.

She slipped out of his grasp and bolted, bending down to pick up his knife and take her sister's hand, pulling Azelma up with her.

And they did just what they were good at doing, what they'd done as children, back in Montfermeil, racing down the dirt path to the schoolhouse, as she'd sometimes seen boys do. Tripping over her long skirts and giggling. Back when life was nothing but empty happiness.

They ran.

**::**

Nighttime. Daytime. Sleep. Waking hours. Light. Darkness. All of it meant nothing to Enjolras, the man who went through his life with utter disregard for limitation and rule. He could spend all night awake and all morning asleep, or vice versa, or spend an entire day fully awake, the next twenty-four hours sleeping. And tonight, he would be awake.

Papers. There were lots of papers in his life. Papers to write for school, for he was still a law student with, as Feuilly had once called it, "a bit of revolt leader on the side." Pamphlets for the revolution. Articles, pages torn from books. His flat was always a mess. And these papers took up most of his living space. The kitchen table was covered in them, leaving space only for a candle, there were papers all over the floor, even stacks of them by the wood oven stove. The only light sources were the burning candle and the oil-lamp by his bedside, in his room.

Enjolras was, at the moment, sprawled out on the settee going through one of his law textbooks. Feet bare and resting against the armrest. He should be going through the paper Jehan had written for the revolution, or pamphlets, but then, he should have had this passage finished days ago. His reading was suddenly interrupted however, by a very loud pounding on his door.

The young man groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position, dropping his book and burying his face in his hands, tugging at blond curls in frustration. Oh, this was just _fantastic_. _Just_ what he needed when he was this busy. In fact, he really should put forward a request asking people to come banging in the middle of the night more often. He stood, and answered the door, despite the fact that he was in his dressing gown. It was probably the landlord asking about rent, or perhaps a neighbor angered by the light at this hour. Instead, he found himself staring down into the grimy face of a certain little boy.

"Gavroche!" Enjolras hissed, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and pulling him through the door, which he hastily shut behind him. The child was, to his surprise, shivering and soaking wet, and when he glanced out the window he saw it had begun to rain. In fact, it was pouring, weather that could be predicted for July. The little boy's long hair stuck to the sides of his face. Gavroche's lips were slightly blue as his teeth chattered and his ragged little clothes clung to his tiny frame. His small bare feet were going blue too, and muddy. What Enjolras really noticed though, was the look in his eyes. Gone was the omnipresent twinkle of mischief, replaced by what could only be … fear. The look was so rare to see on his cocky little face it was disconcerting. Arms tightly wrapped around himself for warmth, Gavroche looked up at Enjolras.

"Gavroche," Enjolras repeated, unsure of what to do. He moved to the fireplace. "Whatever happened? Why have you come so late at night?" The boy was having trouble answering; his teeth were chattering too much, so Enjolras focused on lighting the fire. He grabbed a blanket from his bed and handed it to the child, who wrapped it tightly round himself and plopped down onto the settee. Enjolras joined him, shoving his books aside. He would be frustrated, if this was another one of Gavroche's casual little drop-ins. Unfortunately, the boy had done this in the past; stopped by to "say hello" even when Enjolras was busy. But this was different.

Gavroche allowed himself to warm up a bit before finally answering. He still shivered, but at least his teeth weren't chattering so much he couldn't talk. "I w-went back to the Elephant after the meeting. B-but when I got there, my sisters were gone. There wasn't no note with the name o' the place they'd gone, like they always leave. And some'un had attached a bucket o' icy water so when I t-tried to climb up it fell on me. I dunno who. Probably gang kids p-playing jokes. So I went looking f-for my sisters, and I couldn't find 'em. I was out there for hours, I was. Even 'Ponine don't know the streets like me. What if something happened to her?"

Enjolras awkwardly, rubbed the boy's back. "You mustn't worry, boy. Your sisters are fine."

"N-no, they ain't. Somethin' happened. I know it. Anyway. I was talkin', don't interrupt! So I didn't know where to go, 'cause it was cold and I was a long way from the elephant. Finally I realized that I was near your place so I came." He gave Enjolras a stern look, evidently starting to become his old self again. "_Now_ I'm done, thank you, _m'sieur_," he added, giving the word _m'sieur_ a sarcastic lilt.

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was this added responsibility. But it was raining out and he could not simply throw Gavroche out into the street. He cared for the cocky little urchin, and Enjolras knew that he'd be keeping the boy here for the night. He'd sleep on the settee, let Gavroche have his bed. So he gave the child another awkward pat on the back. "Er," he said. "I tell you, you mustn't worry about your sisters. Surely they have gone out and will be back. Perhaps they're already back."

Gavroche shook his head. "N-No, they ain't – "

"It's alright. Just rest now." Enjolras offered the child a half-smile and reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. "Are you hungry?"

Gavroche nodded. "Yes. If ya've got something to eat …. "

Enjolras gave him a chunk of baguette, the good white bread, with a slice of cheese, and an apple. Then he sat down and began to go through his law textbook as Gavroche devoured the food. When this was done, he was no longer shivering, but he was still wet and his lips were still tinged blue slightly.

For a while there was silence. Just the soothing crackle of the fire, the rain against the window, and the occasional flipping of a page as Enjolras read and Gavroche sat, staring into the flames. The child suddenly spoke up, "I'm just so worried about 'em. Whatever will happen?"

Enjolras looked up and sighed. He put down his book and came back to the settee, putting his arms around Gavroche's small frame. To his surprise, the boy didn't wriggle; he rested his head against Enjolras' strong shoulders and shut his eyes. "You know, boy," Enjolras started softly. Paused. He was unsure of just what kind of role he was taking on right now. It was almost fatherly. He wasn't used to that. A man who scarcely believed in love would never have dreamed of such a role. And yet, here he was, caring for a child who, in all fairness, did view him as a sort of idol and father figure.

Enjolras took a breath in. "You know," he tried again. "I don't think you need to worry about your sisters. Why, if they're anything like you, then they shall cope quite nicely, I should think. Rest now, boy, it shall be alright."

Gavroche's words were slowing into a childish, sleepy mumble. "Not 'Zelma," he murmured into Enjolras' shoulder. "And anyhow .… if our father's found 'em, then they're .… in trouble. It won't go well …. but … I suppose they …. could be alright … 'Ponine's tough …. and – " he yawned again – "she can …. take care of …. 'erself quite .… well …. "

He fell asleep after that, his head drooping. Enjolras stroked the young boy's hair gently, then scooped him up and carried him to down the corridor, into his room and bed, where he gently wrapped the blanket around the child's little body and turned out the oil-lamp. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently rubbed Gavroche's back, brushed the overlong blond hair out of his eyes, before returning to his books. He was still busy. And he had work to do.

**::**

Where in one part of the city there was gentleness, in what was seemingly another world on the other side of Paris, there was fear. Éponine was running, her sister's hand held firmly in hers, the one thing she would never let go.

Azelma was crying softly as they sprinted, her sobs ceased to gasps when she was out of breath. Éponine didn't know if Montparnasse was chasing them or not. She didn't dare look over her shoulder, didn't dare look for fear of slowing down. While she could not hear anyone following them, she couldn't really hear anything over the overwhelming pounding of fear in her mind. And besides, 'Parnasse was stealthy; it was likely she would not be able to hear him anyway.

"'Ponine," Azelma gasped after God-knew-how-long. "Please …. might we …. rest?"

Éponine knew that they should stop running, that they truly _should_ rest. She was somewhat aware of her slowing steps. So she pulled Azelma behind a stack of crates on the corner and collapsed onto the pavement, breathing hard. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air. "Oh, thank God," she breathed. "Thank God." Montparnasse wasn't coming, or if he was then he was far behind.

"I did tell you we should rest," Azelma said in a small voice. She was still trembling, and suddenly, for the first time, Éponine became aware of the rain. In her fear she had not noticed it. In fact, it was pouring, and she realized her feet were blue, and that she was starting to shiver. Her skirts clung to her legs and her green shawl was half-transparent.

"Well, I'm rather glad we have," Éponine answered, still shivering. "It'll be all right," she told her sister softly, wrapping her arms around her. "We shall be fine, you'll see."

"It's cold," was Azelma's soft answer. "I am frozen to the bone."

"We'll find Gavroche soon. Once we've caught our breath. He will be quite worried about us by now, I should think. Ye gods! I shudder to think of the look our brother will give us when we arrive."

Azelma giggled softly. "He shall be rather cross, shan't he? Though I suppose he would be within every right to be so."

"We shall have to allow him to take us to the opera to make up for it," Éponine said, partially in jest.

"Oh, I _do_ hate it whenever he does that. We must hide in the back and I am constantly terrified we'll be caught and thrown out! I don't think I'll let him any longer."

"He deserves it," Éponine said quietly. "For he is, after all, our brother."

For what might have been a minute, perhaps two, the girls clung to each other and sat. The rain soaking them as they shivered, getting in their eyes so that they would have to rub at them every so often. It was cold, but both sisters were much too exhausted to venture out just yet.

Until suddenly, a hand crept out, covering Éponine's mouth and pulling her upwards before she could let out a sound. Azelma screamed, but the knife that was suddenly pressed against her throat was enough to silence her.

"Why!" exclaimed Montparnasse. "'Ello there, _mademoiselles_. Found ya, then." He leaned over Éponine, grinning at her as she struggled to escape his grasp. "Ya were being terribly rude. Do ya not remember me telling you Papa misses his girlies?"

Azelma whimpered softly as Claquesous, who had appeared out of heaven-knew-where pressed the blade tighter against her throat. A single bead of blood appeared, brilliant red against pale skin, which quickly became a runny pink for the rain.

Éponine struggled harder, but she was no match against Montparnasse. So she bit him. Montparnasse yelped in pain, drawing his hand away. "Perhaps we should … " Éponine started. "Perhaps we _should_ go with them."

She didn't know why she was saying this. What was she doing? This went against all they had been fighting for over the past twenty days. But she could not go on running. Montparnasse would find her again, and she'd be putting Gavroche in danger.

"Oh," said Montparnasse teasingly. "I see the puppy is tired of the chasing games, isn't it?"

Éponine closed her eyes. Opened them. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll go back."

**::**

* * *

_July 12, 1831_  
_328 days left  
_

Enjolras woke. Which was strange when you thought about it because he didn't actually remember falling asleep. Certainly not on the settee, and most definitely not with an open book over his face. Suddenly aware of the weight, he shoved it off and sat up. The flat looked the same as usual: papers everywhere, clothing draped over the furniture, books in messy stacks on the floor rather than their shelves. In his bleary state, it took Enjolras a moment to recall last night's events.

He rose, stepping over his book and down the narrow corridor to his bedroom. Gavroche was still asleep, but Enjolras leaned over, shaking the boy's shoulder gently, and the child opened his eyes. "Oh," Gavroche said. "'Ello, Enjy."

"Please," Enjolras sighed heavily, "do not call me _Enjy_."

Gavroche shrugged. "Well, if you can't take a nickname. 'Ferre call me Gav, sometimes. I'll be off then. Sisters to look for."

Enjolras nodded. "Yes, perhaps you should be off. I'll give you something to eat. Some bread, perhaps. Ensure you arrive at the meeting in time, though, won't you?"

"'Course I will," Gavroche scoffed. "I'm always there." He climbed out of the bed, leaned against the wall. "When am I ever late?"

Enjolras smiled softly. "Come on then. I am very busy at the moment. I'll give you some bread to eat and you can be on your way. I shall see you this evening."

Gavroche nodded. "Mmhm. So then. You were tellin' me of some bread? I'd quite like that, I would. Some cheese'd be rather nice too."

Enjolras began to move towards the kitchen, Gavroche following close behind. The young man cut two slices of the white baguette from the previous night, as well as a few chunks of cheese, and handed them to the child. "You're too bold by half," he scolded. "Off with you then." Taking hold of Gavroche's shoulders, he steered him out the door.

Enjolras watched as the boy darted down the stairway, quick and nimble on his little ten-year-old feet. He was a clever child, and in a way, Enjolras admired him. Halfway down, Gavroche turned and looked up. "Oi. _Enjy_."

"What have I told you – "

Gavroche grinned. "See ya, Apollo. Thanks fer the food."

And he was gone.


	9. Papa's Good Girl

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: In the musical we know very little of the members of the Patron-Minette, despite their vague characterizations in the novel. While their roles will be small in this story, I am heavily basing their characters off of convenience to the plot, not personalities in the novel.

Warning: The following chapter contains mentions of prostitution. Therefore reader descretion is advised.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Les Misérables_ then Gavroche would still have a solo. Therefore it is safe to assume that I do not, in fact, own the best musical of all time.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Nine: Papa's Good Girl

_July 12, 1831_  
_328 days left  
_

The apartment was silent. There was the gentle ticking of the mantle clock, rhythmic and sure. Steady. And it was slightly windy out, causing the shutters to clatter softly in their places. But that was all. Cosette sat in the midst of this silence, waiting and loathing it. She hated this silence, the overwhelming quiet. How she wished Marius would come! Then she wouldn't have to sit here, in a flat without her Papa in it, listening to the mantle clock tick the seconds away. There was too much emptiness. It was maddening.

She was about to try reading again when something knocked against the window pane. Cosette was unable to resist breaking into a wide smile as she dashed over, pushing the window open. Sure enough, there stood Marius in the garden. She waved at him before hurrying downstairs to let him in.

"You do look quite beautiful today," Marius stated when she had opened the door. "I like it when you wear blue dresses. I should think they suit you nicely." He was staring at her while he said this, despite her having stepped aside, holding the door open for him to pass through. It seemed to take the student a moment to find himself before he shook his head in confusion and stepped through the door.

Cosette, meanwhile, blushed slightly and suppressed a timid giggle. She dearly hoped Marius hadn't noticed her effort to look especially nice today – or, for that matter, Papa. She had in fact spent half an hour brooding over which dress to wear before settling on the soft blue satin one with the velvet collar, one Papa had bought for her fifteenth birthday. It was a year and a half old now, but still fit her perfectly and was still in excellent shape. She had also spent at least an hour running a brush through her dark blonde hair.

Marius offered her his arm, like a gentleman. Cosette smiled as he walked her up the stairs and to her flat. "Why, how very kind of you," she said with a teasing smile, and allowed him to escort her.

"Is this your home, then?" Marius asked her when they stopped in front of the door. Cosette nodded and pushed it open. He quickly stepped forward in attempt to hold the door open for her, causing Cosette to giggle and step through anyhow.

"You needn't hold the door for me," she said pointedly with a teasing smile, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him in. "But I appreciate it anyhow. You really do try to be a gentleman, don't you?"

Marius flushed furiously. "I should think … "

Quickly, Cosette silenced him with a brief kiss and led him to the settee. They passed most of the day there, talking and kissing. At one point, Cosette fixed some tea, as she'd seen Papa do. She had never really used the stove before, but she discovered that she used the wood oven easily, as if she had done so a hundred times in the past. The tea was warm and soothing, despite the sticky July heat, sweet-smelling and blissful.

"This is marvelous," Marius complimented her as he took a long sip. "It truly is, as if it has been made at the hands of an angel. And, I suppose, it has been. Is it jasmine, then?"

Cosette blushed. "Well … yes. Yes, it is jasmine."

After this, they read to each other. Cosette had a fat volume of Shakespeare's best works, translated to French, and she confessed to not having read all of them yet. She was not quite so drawn to the plays as she was the romances of Jane Austen, whose work she could devour within a few sittings. "I believe I have read _Pride and Prejudice_ thrice already, at least," she admitted. "_Mansfield Park_ always was my very favorite though. Truly one of her best works in my opinion. Indeed, that book I have read at least ten times, and my volume is thoroughly battered."

But they spent the day accompanied by the words of the Bard and several more cups of tea. Cosette rested her head in Marius' lap as he read to her, listening and soothed. He had such a nice voice, and when he read she felt at ease, almost as though she were a little girl being read to by Papa again. However, when Cosette did the reading, Marius would sit thoroughly enraptured. He was not listening to the words, but to her voice, the sweet sound of it.

The pair read all the way through _As You Like It_, and were about to begin reading _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ when there came the sound of a door opening, closing downstairs. Footsteps. Cosette gasped softly, gaze shooting toward the mantle clock. It was six. Had the day really passed so quickly? Papa simply couldn't be home yet, not this early!

Her heart raced as she silenced Marius. He looked at her, then the door, where the footsteps were coming closer. His eyes grew wide. Thinking quickly, Cosette grabbed his hand and tugged him silently … to her … to her … to her bedroom! She looked around the room, wildly, as if inside of it for the first time. Her mind was blank, and dear Lord, she couldn't think. Why couldn't she think?

The door could be heard opening. "Cosette?" Papa's voice called. "Cosette, my child, are you all right?"

The armoire. It was the only place. Swiftly she whipped the doors open and shoved Marius inside, closing them tightly as she did so. For good measure, she locked it before diving onto her bed and picking up the nearest book, pretending to read it.

Just in time, her door opened and she looked up. "Papa! You're home." She feigned innocence and stood to hug him. "Oh, do forgive me, Papa, for I believe I did not hear you come in. Are you all right, then? How was your day?"

From inside the armoire, Marius waited with bated breath. The voices grew muffled as Cosette led her father to their sitting room. He knew he could not risk leaving yet, for the only way out was through the window. He would surely cause a great racket and attract attention. So he did nothing but huddle in the armoire, and wait. He had never been inside one before, and certainly not a lady's.

Being inside an armoire was a terribly strange sensation, being half-suffocated by skirts and dangling bustles. Her wardrobe was almost completely stuffed. There were corsets in the back, which he discovered when he backed up too far and one fell over his neck. It smelled … rather nice though, and he couldn't help but allow himself to get comfortable. It smelled like her. Marius didn't know how much time he spent there in the armoire, but before terribly long, there came footsteps and muffled conversation. He could not make out the words. Suddenly, the doors to the armoire opened, and his heart skipped a beat. It was only Cosette however. She did not look at Marius, only reached for a bonnet. He barely caught her whisper. "Door. Going for a stroll." And then she shut the doors again, leaving him submerged in darkness.

He waited a while, until he was certain they were gone. Then he pushed the doors open and hurried from the premises, praying he was not seen.

**::**

_August 8, 1831_  
_300 days left  
_

Over the month, Éponine saw M'sieur Marius nearly every day, but they often didn't speak. Most of the days, he would not notice her as she stared. Once, he caught her looking. Just once. He had not seemed bothered, inviting her to his flat briefly and offering her some water. Bread with cheese. Not the dark, dry, burnt bits of crust long gone stale she was used to eating. This was fresh, and warm, and soft, just bought from the bakery.

"It's very nice, m'sieur," she'd told him as she sat on the edge of his bed. "Warm."

Marius had smiled warmly at her from his place halfway across the room, at his desk. "It is the least I can do, 'Ponine. You are my very own, dear friend, and have brought me to the girl I love. I believe I am still in your debt." The smile which was directed towards her began to fade, clearly intended for someone else. "She truly is beautiful. An angel. And so kind and gentle. Clever. She can be witty too, you know. I believe you'd like her, 'Ponine."

Suddenly the bread did not seem quite so warm, the cheese not quite so sharp, and the water acquired a tinny, metallic taste. Éponine had forced down another mouthful before standing quickly. "I believe I should … go … "

"So soon?" A look of disappointment had flickered across his boyish face. That look broke her heart a thousand times over. It is far worse to be wanted as a friend and nothing else than not to be wanted at all. When one is wanted by a friend, there is a faint glimmer of hope, a beacon of light in the middle of a raging sea. One that can never be reached.

"I … yes … " Éponine stammered. She had offered him a brief, tight-lipped smile before bolting from the room. She huddled in the stairwell for a moment, fighting against the tears, before standing and returning to her family's flat.

Azelma was out, as she so often was, attending to their father's business. Father had taken her with him, for once, finally doing something other than sitting around, drunk. Mother was doing some "shopping" – that being pickpocketing – and the rest of the gang members were away. Except for Brujon, for of course Thénardier would never leave the flat unattended.

And Brujon was drunk.

Very drunk.

He was slumped in a chair at the table, at least three bottles of beer lying around on the floor. The man was conscious, but only just so. When he saw Éponine entering, his head turned in her general direction, vision probably too blurred to see her. Then again, Éponine reflected, he usually didn't do much else than stare stupidly into space and whack people.

"Oi," he had slurred. "Yer 'ome then, eh, pretty child?" He squinted at her and blinked several times as if in attempt to clear away the drunken haze that surely clouded his vision.

"Yes," Éponine had answered quietly. "I am. You're very observant."

"Such a pretty girl … " he'd continued. "Yer Papa knows what's best for ya … stayin' 'ere an' doin' what ought to be done. He missed ya when you was away. Needed work to be done. It's important, ya know. An' with breasts like those, I reckon any man'd give ya anythin' yer Papa wants. Like gold. Maybe ya should … " he had trailed off before continuing. "Perhaps ya should go to the docks like them other lovely girlies. The boys'd like ya, doll."

Had he not been so drunk, Éponine would have slapped him. The past five years or so of her life had been miserable and difficult, and she had come close to reaching such drastic measures, of selling her own body to the sailors by the docks. It was a while ago, she'd been only thirteen, and there were girls as young as eleven lined up. But something, she didn't know what, had frightened her. It was here that Éponine had promised herself never to reach such measures again. She would _never_ sell her own body, nor would she allow her sister to. Now the sheer thought of it made her sick. There was one line she would never cross.

She had gone out after that, and he'd been too drunk even to notice. Éponine often went out when she was left at home with only a gang member around, and usually they did not care. She had run off again today, leaving Babet at the flat. Most likely, he was now sitting and blinking stupidly, probably just realizing now that she was gone in the first place.

The streets of Paris were sticky and hot. The shawl which Éponine always wore clung to her skin for the perspiration and her brow was dotted with beads of sweat. The hot sun beat mercilessly on her head, for she had no fine lace parasols to shield herself with. Not like the Lark probably had. Éponine didn't know where her feet would take her. She knew the streets well, but when she went on walks such as these, she often did not even register where she was going. She simply wandered for what could be hours on end.

This time, her feet decided to take her to the one place she desired _not_ to go to. She was standing directly outside of the Café Musain. Decidedly, Éponine cursed briefly before marching inside. She was going to sit down, have a drink. She didn't have very much money, but her pockets jingled with a few coins. It was too early for any meetings to be taking place, but at this time, her brother might be found about here. She had not seen Gavroche since her decision to return to her father, and missed him greatly.

Éponine looked around the café. It was dingy inside, but not grim. Several members of the upper class lounged about near the windows, while the poorer members of the working class sat in clusters around the bar. They were rowdy and loud, laughing obnoxiously and allowing themselves to get drunk, and while the wealthy shielded off the horrors of their world with fans and newspapers, they could not block it off completely. Clearly, they still _chose_ to attend the Musain, and there was a reason for it. This was the first time Éponine had really entered the Musain and spent time in it, and she admitted that she was rather bewildered by it all. The Musain was strange, she knew that through Marius and Gavroche. But she had never expected the place to be so _very_ unusual.

It took Éponine a moment to find herself before she took a seat by the bar. The barmaid, a pretty young brunette whose collarline was lowered just so, enough to cause a small scandal, approached her, folding the rag she'd been using to wipe down the counters as she did so.

"Why, 'ello," the barmaid said with a smile. "You're new, I see. Ain't ya, love?"

Éponine nodded. "I … I am. Might I have … some hot milk then, then? And some bread with cheese? Just one glass if you please, or whatever I can by with this." She dug into her pocket, fishing out the coins, and slid them across the counter. She didn't order any alcohol. Once, when things were desperate, Éponine and her sister had been forced to live off of beer for a few days. She'd hated it. Hated the taste, hated the feel of it down her throat, hated the way it made her brain feel fuzzy. Most of all she'd hated the fact that she was drinking. Drinking like her father.

"No wine? We got some mighty good wine 'ere. What have ya come to a bar for if ya ain't gonna order some decent wine?" When Éponine shook her head, the barmaid gathered the coins, counted them. "Five _sous_?" she asked skeptically. Éponine was skeptical too; she didn't know she'd had that much money. She only nodded, and the barmaid shrugged, pocketing the money. "Ya can buy one glass of 'ot milk with that, as well as bread with cheese – dark, o' course. Or, if you'd prefer the white stuff, then you may choose that and be rid o' the cheese. Your choice."

"I shall have the dark bread. I hardly mind."

Again, the barmaid shrugged as she set off to prepare the hot milk. And Éponine waited. She kept an eye out for her brother, but she didn't see him. She was not worried for him. Gavroche could fare well on the streets by himself. He'd been doing so since he was small, and he would go on living for years to come. Many street urchins died young; Éponine would often see their little bodies huddled against buildings. Her brother was not amongst their number. It was not hope speaking. It was firm knowledge.

Somebody sat down next to her. Éponine paid them little mind. She was too busy looking out for her brother, busier still being lost in her own mind. But as time progressed, as she _still_ waited for the hot milk, Éponine couldn't be rid of the strangest feeling that she was being watched. Slowly, she turned to see the man next to her.

At first glance, she instantly noticed one thing. He wasn't shabbily dressed, most certainly not a member of the working class. But then she took a proper look and her heart began to pound just a little bit faster, her pulse quickened just so.

She was looking directly into the face of a certain police inspector. Inspector Javert.


	10. The Place She Always Wanted

**Until the Earth is Free**

* * *

Author's Note: First of all, I want to apologize for my inability to write for Inspector Javert. I love him as a character, but he's very hard to write for. Luckily he won't make too many appearances, so I won't have to worry too much. Secondly, this chapter now marks the (approximate) middle of the story! _Until the Earth is Free_ was intended to only be about twenty chapters long, it might lapse into twenty-one at most. Finally, I am also aware this chapter isn't my best work. I apologize for this, but **I'll be leaving for the summer, and likely won't be able to update until I return at the end of August**. So I want to have at least one new chapter up before I go, and it's somewhat rushed.

Warning: Contains some moderate swearing and coarse language. So reader discretion is therefore advised.

Disclaimer: Must not own _Les Misérables … _must not own _Les Misérables_ … I don't own _Les Misérables._ Obviously I wish I did.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Ten: The Place She Always Wanted

_August 8, 1831  
300 days left  
_

In contrast to the buzzing life inside of the café, the world of the Place Saint-Michel outside of the Musain was now silent. The only living creature was a single pigeon, hopping about the cobblestones and searching for crumbs of food. Eventually it discovered a few crumbs of bread, which it began to gobble greedily in its beak with a pleased flutter of its wings. A single child, a toddler of about three, ran through the plaza, delightedly kicking his feet. With an alarmed tweet, the pigeon flew off, finding a safer place to roost on the rooftops.

Life was often like this for the pigeons. For the urchins. Barely scraping by and fleeing from the greater forces when it was necessary.

Éponine was afraid. That was unusual, for she didn't usually admit to being afraid. Not even to herself. But now she sat in her seat by the bar, her heart beating frantically and her breathing shaky. As surreptitiously as possible, she slid her hands down to tightly grip the edges of her stool until her knuckles had gone white. The inspector was still watching her. After several seconds in which the only sound was that of her own wildly beating heart, Inspector Javert asked coldly, "I say. Are you quite all right, _mademoiselle_?"

Éponine offered a brief, tremulous smile. "I … Why, yes, Inspector. Thank you, Inspector." She quickly averted her gaze, watching the brunette barmaid. At the moment, the young woman was leaning over the counter and flirting with some of the working-class men. The men laughed and one reached out to stroke the side of her face. The barmaid slapped at his hand in mock horror, and sauntered away, ignoring the men's calls of, "Oh, _do_ come back then, love!" with a satisfied smirk.

Shortly after, she presented Éponine with the hot milk and bread. "'Ere ya go then, love," she said with a nod. "Enjoy. Come back someday, and if ya please, perhaps 'ave some fun with the men over there on yer way out. You're all rags, I daresay, but pretty enough." Another smirk, and she turned, walking away and into the private rooms at the back without so much as a backward glance.

Éponine was still trying not to tremble, all too aware of Javert eyeing her again. It was evident that he was watching her for some reason, though what this reason was she didn't know. Wasn't sure she wanted to know. She cast him a subtle, sidelong glance, dark eyes flickering briefly to the side, then back to her milk glass.

At last, the tensions ceased slightly as finally, the inspector spoke to her. "You, girl. There is something I need to ask of you."

Éponine looked up innocently. "Very well. Whatever is it, Inspector?" She offered a brief and respectful nod, despite the burning feels of hatred she felt towards the man deep within her.

"I have observed you are wont to hanging about in this area. Perhaps you might answer a few questions for me?" It was not a request.

"I live very close to here," Éponine lied smoothly. Lying. She was very good at that now, far better than she would have liked to be. "Surely I would be seen spending time in the local area. What are these questions, then?"

The Inspector gave her a suspicious glance before nodding. "Might I ask if you know anything of this café? If you do, in fact, live in the area as you have claimed, then I am certain you would have information."

Éponine shook her head. "I'm afraid not. This is the first time that I have set foot in the place. As you can see, my family is not rich; we do not often come across money and cannot spend it on luxuries such as feasting at bars. I helped some of the fishermen load fish earlier today, however, and in exchange received a wealthy sum. Enough to allow myself the rarity of a meal in the café." As soon as the words escaped her lips, she sat tensely, waiting. It was a good lie, skillfully woven while staying reasonable, no rips in the tight seams of its fabric.

"I can see that, thank you. But you know nothing? Nothing at all of the activity in the rooms upstairs?"

"Activity?" Éponine echoed. "I am afraid not, though I might assume the upstairs room is used as storage of some kind. Wine, I should think. Thank you, inspector, sir."

Afterwards, he left her alone, sliding a coin across the bar counter for his drink. Inspector Javert left as he had come, as a shadow. He was rather like that. Something that hid easily, went unnoticed, but was gritty and authoritarian when he desired to be – which, in all fairness, was most of the time. Éponine knew him well, as she did most police inspectors in Paris. He had been appointed but a few months ago, and yet had already become one of the more feared members of the police force in the city, amongst the poor.

But even though the man was gone, Éponine could still feel a slight chill down her spine. Because whatever was happening, something was terribly wrong. If the police were conducting interrogations, then suspicions were clearly rising. About the cause with which her brother was so strongly affiliated with, which Marius believed in so passionately.

And if that was the case, then two of the three people she cared about in this world were in danger.

**::**

Two hours later, the secret room above the Musain was beginning to fill up. The evening was going just the way it usually did. The students that formed _les amis_ gathered around a table, drinking wine and chatting before the meeting began, while a young street urchin ran about being smug.

At the moment Courfeyrac was engaged in a conversation with Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre. The three young men each held a cup of wine as they gathered in a corner, laughing. On the table next to them sat an open notebook, belonging to Jehan, filled with poems and notes written in harsh black ink.

Enjolras, meanwhile, was running about pulling his friends aside at random. His victim was now Combeferre, whom he grabbed by the arm and yanked to one side without apology. "Combeferre. Have you put forth consideration to how we will further spread the word of our cause?"

The bespectacled student blinked. "I was speaking to Courfeyrac and Jehan," he said purposefully. "But yes, I have put forward consideration. The pa – " Combeferre was suddenly cut off, however, by the distraction of a young woman – not so much a woman as a girl, really – standing in the doorway, and all eyes were on her. At the back of the room, Joly detached himself from Musichetta. Marius, who was busy speaking with Feuilly, only gaped in astonishment.

Gavroche was the first to react. He leapt to his feet and sprinted across the room, throwing his arms around her waist. "'Ponine!" came his exuberant cry. The girl distractedly wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back.

The girl, presumably the sister Gavroche so often spoke of, was perhaps seventeen years of age, with olive skin and scraggly dark hair that hung around her bony shoulders. She wore a dress which was too small for her, a muddy shade of red, the skirt just above her ankles, revealing them. There was a green plaid shawl wrapped around her shoulders, despite the August heat. The girl had wide, dark eyes, almost doe-like, and they flicked back and forth as she took in the room.

Courfeyrac was the first to speak. "I presume you are Gavroche's sister? He often speaks of you. Éponine, is it not?" She nodded.

Enjolras stepped forth. "Yes. Éponine. We spoke a month or two ago." There was no disguising the mad excitement in his eyes. "I assume you have … decided to join our cause? Do take a seat, I'm sure your brother shall explain everything."

"That … is not why I have come," Éponine said slowly. "I need to tell you something very important." She gently pushed her brother away from her, and he craned his neck up, looking at her with wide eyes.

Enjolras seemed bewildered, but he nodded. "All right, then. Very well. What, pray tell, news have you?"

Éponine still seemed uncomfortable. She looked around the room before leaning against the wall and announcing with sudden honesty, "I was in the café and … one of the police inspectors, Javert, he came up to me. He began to interrogate me and asked me what I knew of 'activity' in the room upstairs … I, of course, did tell him I knew nothing. But I do believe you are all being suspected by the police force rather earlier than you wish."

There was no missing the exchanged glances of worry in the room. Enjolras dropped into a chair, folding his hands together tightly. After a prolonged silence, he looked up. "Then it would seem our cause truly has been noticed," he said dryly. "Yes, we have had a small issue with interrogations. Once. Gavroche was questioned, but he was heading up the stairs. From what I understand, the police have never interrogated citizens."

"So, that's bad," Musichetta spoke up. She was not especially caring about the cause, but she did care for her two lovers, and for her, it was reason enough to be concerned. "Quite bad," she added.

"Yes," Joly answered her. "Yes, it is bad."

"We have wanted our cause to be noticed by the public," Enjolras continued, ignoring both of them entirely. "Not the law. Not yet, anyhow. We have been planning our barricades for quite a while now, but not … we need a sign. We must wait until the time is ripe to set up our barricades and rally the people, to bring the justice this country needs so desperately. Indeed, we cannot simply start a revolution in the streets on a whim. Revolution is like warfare, and warfare must be planned carefully. If the police force have recognized us, then we shall be arrested before we can change anything."

Éponine moved to leave. "I thought I should warn you," was all she said.

"Wait!" Gavroche called out in plea. "Aw, do wait, 'Ponine! Oh, stay fer the meeting, just this once. Please. Fer me. I ain't seen ya in nearly a month now."

Éponine paused, turned. His lips pressed together tightly, he was staring at her hopefully. And the look in his eyes … oh, God, it was heartbreaking. So much hope, and desperation. He wanted to spend every possible moment with the sister he hardly ever saw, the closest thing to a mother he really had. Because in the end, he was really just a ten-year-old boy who needed care, despite denying it with cheeky grins and childish arrogance.

How long could she keep going, saying no to him? How long could she keep denying her brother care? Éponine took a deep breath before stepping back inside. "Just this once," she told him. Sitting down in a chair she nodded, and he grinned, hurrying to take a spot next to her.

And the meeting began. The members of _les amis_ didn't mind having another member amongst their ranks, if a temporary one. Had she been a new member, perhaps they would have been warier of what they said. But Éponine was Gavroche's sister, and if anyone believed as passionately in the cause as Enjolras, then it would be the little street urchin. Around her, perhaps they felt they could talk freely.

They discussed potential ways of further spreading their propaganda and towards the end the meeting, Éponine was invited to help Musichetta sew cockade pins. She denied the request, of course. Embroidering was for upper-class girls, or girls like Musichetta. Gavroche had run off to talk with the one called Courfeyrac. Instead, she gathered her courage and went to speak to Marius, and the friend he was chatting with. Éponine didn't know his name, but he was perhaps a few years older than Marius' twenty-one, maybe nearer to thirty years of age. Dark curls and eyes, he wore trousers and a white blouse, his outfit completed by a green cravat with a small cockade pin attached to it.

" … oh, and she truly is a kind-hearted soul," Marius was saying. "The last time I went to see her was a few days ago. She had saved me some of the biscuits that she and her father had purchased at the bakery. The pair of us shared them together in the garden, and … "

It was a punch in the gut, and Éponine took a step back. Good God. Even here, even amongst his friends, he spoke of her. He spoke of the Lark. If she did not love him as she did, then perhaps she would have hated him for it. But she took a deep breath and approached him. "Marius!"

"Oh!" Marius turned, smiled. "Éponine. I was wondering where you had gotten to. Oh, I _am_ glad that you came. I understand that you did come with serious news, but then, I thank you for staying." Grinning, he waved at his friend. "Have you met Grantaire?"

"You're a pretty one. Marius never told me you were pretty," came the response. Grantaire had seemed to be leaning casually against a table, but now Éponine saw he was supporting his weight on it, for when he spoke, his words were slurred and his breath reeked of alcohol. She recoiled slightly. She might have drunken before, but that did not mean she did not subconsciously fear drunk men. To her, drunkenness linked to her father. "Don't go, pretty one," Grantaire slurred. "Do come back. Here. I won't kiss you, not if you'd rather I don't."

"How comforting," Éponine replied.

"You see, Grantaire," Marius joked, "Éponine here will kiss no one."

And her heart broke a thousand times over.

**::**

It was getting late, and Éponine knew that Thénardier would be beyond furious when she walked in at this hour. Furious at her for leaving in the first place. She had a better chance if she spent the night in the street and slept in an alleyway, returned come morning. Then her father would have passed out drunk and forgotten the events of the day before. So that night, she walked with her brother in Paris' streets.

"But 'Ponine, I don't understand why ya left," Gavroche said quietly as the siblings walked together. "And why ya went back. I thought you hated it. Hated 'Parnasse."

"I do," was all Éponine answered. "It's complicated, Gavroche. You would not understand."

"Oi!" he argued. "I ain't a little kid anymore. I'm ten years old now, I'll have you know." Stubbornly Gavroche stopped walking, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ya seem to have a habit of forgetting that."

Éponine smiled softly. "There are some things that perhaps you do not wish to understand."

"'Parnasse, then? Did he hurt you? I will be sure to give the bloody bastard a few ugly bruises myself if he laid a finger upon my sister." Gavroche hopped up onto an upturned crate lying on the side of the road and gave the air a kick. Grinning, he spun to face his now bemused elder sister. "You see what I did there? That's what I'm gonna do to his chin someday."

A half-smile playing on her lips, Éponine shoved him off of the crate playfully. "Watch your tongue," she chided, but the laugh that escaped betrayed her words. Gavroche smirked, shoving his sister back. One hand reached up, snatching her shawl. Before Éponine could even register the action, he was off and running on his quick little feet. She chased after him, laughing.

Eventually, she caught up to him, snatching her shawl and quickly wrapping it around her shoulders, hiding the bruises that marked her skin. "Come," she addressed her brother. "Let's away."

This time, he took her hand and they walked through the streets, two urchins bound together by everything that had been lost.


	11. Tick Tock Goes The Clock

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: A rare treat of an update (if another short chapter, ugh), though chances are there won't be another one 'til my return. I never expected to get a chance to write at all, let alone finish my _Les Misérables_ oneshot, which you can now find on my page if you want to give it a read. It's called "You Raised My Child in Love" and is yet another story about Valjean and Cosette, though not a necessarily fluffy one ... Before I get too much off track though, please enjoy this chapter, luckily it isn't critical to this story's semi-plot so I won't leave you on any cliffhangers. I'm cruel, but not that cruel. and don't forget to leave a review on your way out!

One Important Note: After some consideration, I have decided to introduce chapter titles. While they won't be listed in the content of the story, they will be named in the browse function. I'm noting this because the next several titles will be taken from the lyrics to the Peg Dolls' nursery rhyme from the Doctor Who episode _Night Terrors_ (season 6, episode 9). This will apply up to about chapter fifteen or sixteen.

Disclaimer: If I owned _Les Misérables_, I would be an old man over 200 years old. That would be rather strange. Take the hint that I do not in fact own _Les Misérables_.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Eleven: Tick Tock Goes the Clock

_August 11, 1831  
297 days left  
_

The graveyard was completely silent that morning, save for the cawing crow perched on a headstone. It belonged to an old woman who'd died in her bed, illness finally taking her ever-weakening body. That had been almost fifty years ago now, and now the stone was cracked, overgrown with moss, and covered in bird droppings, the engraved letters that spelled out the woman's name too worn to make out. Only the year she had been born was legible, that being the year 1717. A nearby headstone was much newer, only three years old. The deceased in question had been a young woman just twenty-one years old. The stone angel statue watching over her grave, with her severe wings spread out and her hands held out as if in prayer suggested wealth, but nobody had come to visit the grave in a very long time. A small bouquet of flowers sat at the foot of the headstone, wilted and covered in ants and the grass was not trampled. The crow on the old woman's headstone, bored, bristled its feathers, cawed again, and took off with a flap of his wings, leaving only a stray feather behind. The crow flew over the cemetery, still cawing unpleasantly. A young man just entering the graveyard ducked as the bird swooped and narrowly missed his head. The man shooed it away. "Away with you, bothersome creature! Go and rest on a tree and let me alone."

When the bird stubbornly perched itself on the nearest headstone - this one about twenty years old, belonging to some child, a boy of nine years who'd drowned in the Seine - Jean Prouvaire glowered at the crow. "I believe I told you to go away, my friend. To see a crow is one thing. To see a crow in a graveyard is bad luck indeed." When the bird did not move, he sighed and made his way down the overgrown path to the tree he liked to sit under and this time, the creature stayed put.

The student seated himself on one of the tree's fat roots and produced his small notebook, his pen, from the satchel he wore. The small notebook was tucked into a small pouch sewn to the bag's inside, and was well hidden amongst his fat law textbooks. A few months ago, there'd been no need to hide this notebook but recently, as its pages has filled with revolutionary, radical ideas, he'd decided it was best if the notebook remained a sort of secret, on the off chance his bag was rummaged through by ... well, someone. He knew that the search would not be thorough, having endured them numerous times before. Just a brief look before the bag was returned with a nod and he was sent off on his way.

It was here he best liked to write his poems. This cemetery was scarcely ever visited and Jehan felt the privacy. It was quiet here, when there were no crows screeching away. Indeed, he could spend over an hour hunched over the notebook, scratching away, only leaving when his pen ran out of ink and he was forced to return home to fetch his inkwell, which he disliked taking with him to his classes as it had a habit of leaking, and he saw little point in purchasing a new one. It was in privacy that his quiet genius was truly unleashed, the words spilling from mind to page - everything from haikus to free verse, sometimes even the limericks that irked him so if Courfeyrac nagged him into it - all in neat, tidy script carefully contained and confined, organized in a way his creative mind was not.

As his hands flew across the pages and his mind raced in a way the strict orderliness of the essays he submitted robbed him, Jean Prouvaire did not notice as the crow silently soared back, finding a place to roost on a branch above him. There, it stayed, watching over him in shadow.

**::**

_August 12, 1831_  
_296 days left  
_

Enjolras' apartment was in its usual state of disorder. And the young man himself was in a state of panic, as he paced through the rooms. Or more accurately, climbed over stray pieces of furniture as he wrung his hands in frustration, tugged at his blond curls. He often got like this when under stress, and he was under stress more times than he could have fathomably counted. He found himself unable to do anything but wander the rooms, growling, screaming in frustration.

He was due to host a meeting today, as he always was. Yesterday was one of the rare occasions he had not done so, for Jehan had shown up at his door begging for more time to write the revolutionary poetry he should have finished days ago. And Joly, who lived only a few tenements down, had decided he was ill again. And Combeferre was supposedly too busy. Had Enjolras not been so tired, and had he not been struggling to write out the meeting's speech, then he would never have relented. But he _had_ been tired. Utterly exhausted. So he'd agreed to run the meeting the next day.

Now, it was six o'clock, just two hours until the meeting was due to begin. And his speech was still unprepared. If he were a reasonable young man, like Combeferre, then he would have sat down at once to write in a hurry. But he was not reasonable.

The hour ticked by. At last, Enjolras gave in. He took his coat - a drab gray, like all boys of his class would wear - from its place where it was thrown over the mantle and, after shrugging it on, hurried to the Musain. He would simply have to improvise, something he found himself doing more and more often these days. It wasn't a great concern, for while he knew how to write a stirring speech, he was perfectly capable of making one up on the spot. Even so, he hated doing that - the others looked up to him as if he were a God, and they could always tell whenever he was simply pretending to have prepared his speech beforehand.

This was what it was like in his mind. The thoughts got ahead of themselves, and before he knew it, he was contradicting himself, only to go back to his previous opinion. Everything was plagued by thoughts of his revolution, a brilliant scarlet promise. Now, as he dashed down the street, he was spinning a speech in his head, deciding what was required next. The next step in birthing a new world.

And scarlet. All of it a harsh, angry, brilliant red of promise ...

Despite his haste, Enjolras was the first to arrive in the room upstairs. Not even a drunken Grantaire was present, or an overeager Gavroche. Usually, the boy would have been at the bar, drinking water and nibbling at the small cakes the bartender sometimes gave him out of charity. The man never listened to Gavroche's stubborn protests of, "I don't need no charity ... " and gave him the cakes anyhow. Today the little urchin was nowhere to be seen, and while Enjolras would usually be angered that nobody had arrived yet, today he was grateful. He collapsed into a chair, taking a look around the room's atmosphere. It was unchanged since his last renovation, and whether or not the Musain's owner was aware of his vandalism, he was unsure.

After what might have been an hour, the door to the upstairs room swung open. Enjolras glanced up to see Gavroche waltzing in. The young urchin shut the door behind him and pulled himself up to sit atop the counter in the back. His legs swung, heels hitting against the wood and making an irritating _thwack_ every second or two. Gavroche seemed oblivious to this fact as he shed his vest and grinned broadly. "Hello, Enjy!" he said brightly.

Enjolras had returned to his musings. "Mhm," he answered.

Gavroche was stung by his friend's lack of a response, but he didn't show it. The grin he wore did not fail him and he returned to swinging his legs, making a point of hitting the wood hard with his feet in the hopes of irritating Enjolras, wishing he had shoes so as to make an even greater sound. When Enjolras showed no signs of yelling in frustration or scolding him, he retrieved his vest from where it had fallen on the floor. From its pockets he produced several small, worn strips of cloth in blue and red. At a time, they had been cravats and handkerchiefs, which he'd swiped from a display outside a shop on a visit to the wealthier parts of town. Holding them out in his small palm, the young boy crowed, "Look at what I've got."

Enjolras looked. "Whatever are they?"

"It is cloth," Gavroche retorted. "Cravats and handkerchiefs, once. I stole 'em meself. Thought we could wrap 'em around the wine bottles for decoration in here, seein' as they _are_ in your favorite colors, Enjy." He smirked.

"Red and blue are the colors of the French flag," Enjolras said heavily, but he took the strips of cloth anyhow, secretly pleased with the boy. "And don't call me Enjy," he added.

In the next half hour, he worked silently on his speech while Gavroche set to work at carefully wrapping the strips of cloth around some of the wine bottles in the room. Once every so often the boy would attempt to strike up a conversation, only to be admonished by Enjolras, who was "trying to focus, for heaven's sake!". The sharp note in the young man's voice would temporarily silence the urchin, but in five minutes he would forget and again start going off on whatever came to mind, be it the weather outside, the opera he'd slipped into a few days ago, or even just what he made of the rats that scuttled through the slums in which he lived. When Gavroche came to the topic of his opinion on ladies' parasols, Enjolras realized the urchin was only doing this to irritate him. A threat to skin the boy alive was what it took to silence him in the end.

The eventual meeting went well. Much progress was made. Courfeyrac and Feuilly knew a place to purchase proper rifles. Jean Prouvaire had completely filled his notebook with revolutionary poetry and had just bought a new one. Bahorel had captured the interest of a lovely young woman he'd met in the street, in the name of their cause. Joly was recovered from his supposed malady. Marius showed up, and on time too! Enjolras' speech went well, and this time, nobody knew he had mostly improvised.

When the meeting was over it had begun to rain heavily. Gavroche pressed his nose against the window in misery. "Don't worry," Courfeyrac told the young boy, ruffling his hair. "If you wish you may spend the night in my flat."

"All right," Gavroche agreed. "But only if I race you there!" He knew his way to Courfeyrac's flat better than he did that of any other members of _les amis_. in fact, he was certain he could have gone with his eyes closed, but there was the risk of being run down by a passing carriage. And more than anything, he was up for a challenge.

"Very well, then," Courfeyrac agreed with a grin, and from there he and the boy raced from the room and down the stairs, laughing, him not caring that he was acting anything but his age of twenty-five. On his way out, Courfeyrac knocked over a chair draped in red tablecloth, where it made a noise loud enough to startle the Musain's customers downstairs.

The red fabric of the tablecloth gathered on the floor, pooled like blood.

Scarlet blood of angry men ...

**::**

In the heart of the city, near where the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile was nearly finished in its construction, two girls dressed in rags atypical of the wealthy neighborhood walked down the Champs-Elysses. They were following strict instructions from Thénardier, obeying only for fear of the beating he promised if they did not complete his task. He had ordered them to search for potential houses to rob the next night, discover who had a dog on watch or which home had the lowest fence. And most importantly, who had the best of riches. As far as the work he gave them, it was a kind task. Easy. Simple. To Éponine, it was almost instinctual, now.

"This home is a good one," Azelma said as she stood on her tiptoes to see over the low brick wall built around the house in question. "No dog in the garden."

"Number 47," Éponine noted. "We shall keep it in mind, then, Azelma." She didn't care about the robbery, but she did care about food on the table. A while back, even a month ago, she would have rebelled. She would have refused and taken the beating while maintaining her pride, her last shred of dignity. Now, she was smaller and weaker, doing what she was told. Heavens, she was becoming her sister. She knew that. And yet, she accepted it.

As the sisters looked closer in attempt to see through the windows, a crow fluttered down and decided to take its perch on the branch of a small bonsai tree in the home's garden. It was Azelma who saw it first. "Oh, no!" she cried. "We cannot take this house now."

"Whyever not?"

Azelma huffed in annoyance. "There's a crow. Can't you see it?" She pointed at the crow in question, who was still perched on the branch and ruffling his feathers.

Éponine looked. "I see it," she answered. "It's a lovely crow."

"Oh, why, you know what crows mean. They symbolize death," Azelma argued. Her hazel eyes were wide. "It's an omen, 'Ponine! If we rob this house then one of us shall surely die. It's been marked, you see." She turned away from the house and quickly began to walk away from it, apparently already having made a stubborn, sincere choice. Cursing, Éponine raced after her.

"I do believe you had told me it was ravens that signified death?" she said once she'd caught up with her sister.

"Oh, it's both," Azelma explained. "Ravens and crows."

"That sounds silly to me."

"It most certainly is _not_ silly. You mustn't say that, 'Ponine."

Éponine laughed at her sister's superstition, but she dropped the subject. Instead, she stopped to inspect the next house and the two girls set to work at examining it. Were there gardeners? Maids? Dogs? They fell back into character easily, and the morbid crow was forgotten. But while it was forgotten, it still in fact existed, and long after the two girls in rags had turned a corner, it flapped its wings and called out before flying off and shadowing their steps.


	12. And All The Years, They Fly

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: Well. My situation this summer has turned out to be rather different that I'd expected it to be ... that being, I have access to the Internet more often than I thought I would and thus, I've managed to update again. Now we can all dance happily together in a land of lollipops and unicorns (to _Les Misérables _music). Please enjoy chapter twelve, and don't forget to leave a review on your way out!  
Oh! And this chapter has fluff! Lots of it, because God knows this story needed some. And while writing this story, I have found myself questioning whether or not Valjean and Cosette form my favorite family-relationship OTP ... because Éponine and Gavroche have managed to give Valjean and Cosette a run for their money. I suppose I can't decide, and Valjean/Cosette will have to form the best father-daughter pairing, while Éponine and Gavroche take the place for best sibling-pairing. So yeah. Brace yourself for fluff, because there is going to be a lot. I warn you. A LOT. In fact, this chapter really only features the Thénardier siblings at all.  
Okay, I'll shut up now. Again, please enjoy the chapter and as always, tell me what you think in a review or PM! Any constructive criticism is accepted!

Disclaimer: Despite the lies I tell myself, I do not, in fact, own Les Misérables. I am also running out of new sarcastic ways to say this.

**::**

* * *

Chapter Twelve: And All the Years, They Fly

_August 22, 1831  
286 days left  
_

In the slums of San-Michel, a young urchin boy dressed in rags climbed out of the large stone elephant that was his shelter and began to hurry down the streets, brushing overlong blond hair from his eyes. The usual skip to his step was gone now, replaced by a rush that almost be described as desperate. In the pocket of his weather-beaten blue vest jingled a precious few coins, which he'd been saving for the past week or so, since he swiped the pieces from the pockets of the rich. He hadn't eaten much, but that was alright, for he was well accustomed to going a while without eating. His mind wandered as he walked the streets, out of the slums and to the roads the rich walked, passing the temptations behind shop windows, all those costly luxuries that seemed to promise all the happiness that could be found in life. Baked goods, _chocolat petit fours_ in tantalizing displays, placed on silver trays with doilies and surrounded by merignes, like little snow-capped mountains. Waistcoats on wax mannequins, waistcoats that would serve for good warmth come winter. And shoes! Ones made of sturdy, shiny black leather, like his friends wore. India-rubber balls and wooden figurines in the windows of toy shops. All of these treasures the boy passed, unlike other children who all stopped and dragged reluctant mothers with them so that they might gaze at these delights in longing, and whine until fathers opened wallets and purchased the goods.

At last, he stopped by a bakery. It wasn't the sort of place the wealthy of this neighborhood favored: with a fading painted sign reading _Boulangerie de Paris_ in chipping white paint and a front window looking like it hadn't been washed in weeks; its display somewhat lacking in beauty, it seemed out of place in this world of finery. Gavroche hopped onto the stoop, and, after another touch of the coins in his pocket, he opened the door. A bell rang pathetically as he entered the bakery, which would have smelled musty if it wasn't for the warm scent of fresh-baked bread floating in the air. The baker, a balding man whose ruddy cheeks suggested he sometimes enjoyed a drink or two, looked up with a surprised smile, but it faded when he saw Gavroche. "Oh," he muttered. "Oh, it's your lot again, is it? You filthy street scum, all of you are the same." His voice rose. "Thinking you can waltz in here and get some free bread simply because the shop is a bit run-down. Well, boy, I'll warn you now, you can clear out. I don't give things out for free here."

Gavroche dropped his coins on the counter, sure to make them jingle as he pulled them from his pocket. "Charity? Who needs charity?" When the baker only glowered at him, Gavroche put his charm to action. With a wide smile and wider eyes, he folded his hands behind his back and said, "I'll have the white, please. White bread. An' make it a large loaf, too. I ain't settling for a plain little bun, or somefink like that."

The baker, suspicious at a boy in a state as ragged as Gavroche having any money on him at all, took his coins and counted them. "You have one Franc."

"Yep. I did know that, thank you." Gavroche grinned. The hands behind his back came out, crossed over his chest. "So. White bread, then, if ya please. _M'sieur_." This last word he dragged out in what was almost a drawl, giving it the desired sarcastic lilt. The baker did not fail to notice this sarcasm, and his already reddened cheeks flushed in irritation as he gathered the coins, stuffing them into his apron pocket and turning to grab a large loaf of white bread. This he slammed down on the counter, which the urchin boy took. Here Gavroche hurried from the bakery. He knew that the bread would cost far less than an entire Franc, but at this point, the ten-year-old was beyond caring. Today he could not be bothered to harass the baker for change. He'd keep the debt in mind for later.

Today he was going to have a fine day. There would be warm bread and a visit to the opera house, and, most importantly, a chance to see Éponine. For today was her seventeenth birthday.

**::**

While her brother was heading out to purchase her treats, the now seventeen-year-old Éponine Thénardier was not celebrating her birthday — not yet, anyhow. That would begin in the late afternoon, when Thénardier would leave one of the gang members to watch over her and she'd be able to slip away with Azelma to meet Gavroche. This meeting had been arranged in secret between herself and her brother, the last time they'd seen each other, so many days ago.

Yes, today she was seventeen years old, and despite the fact that it was childish, Éponine could not help but feel giddy at the fact that her birthday had come along. One more year and she would officially be a woman, and her father had always told her that women should not be residing with their parents like little children still clinging to their mother's skirts. One more year and perhaps she would be send away, finally, able to live on the streets without the fear of Thénardier. And somehow, she knew he would not go out of his way to find her when she left, and she knew she'd take Azelma with her. Azelma and Gavroche. She'd find a way for them to live a good life, somehow. The three of them.

Now, however, she was bound to doing the laundry out back, in the dirty well water. It was rare her mother would ask her to do the laundry, and as far as tasks went, it was one of the better ones. Éponine wondered if her mother had remembered that it was her birthday today or not. If so, she hadn't said anything. Most likely not, Éponine imagined, for her mother had not mentioned the birthday of either of her daughters for years. The last time Éponine recalled being wished a happy birthday was when she was eleven. And that had only been a greeting, not a celebration of any kind, not like when she was a little girl back at the inn. Now, she always found herself wondering these things. The same couldn't be said for her father, whom Éponine assumed didn't remember the birthday of his eldest child. Heavens, he sometimes forgot he had children in the first place, if he was drunk enough.

Éponine recalled the first time it happened. She'd been barely thirteen, Azelma still eleven. He'd been drunk, so very drunk, even more drunk than she'd ever seen him, and he'd still had the shard of a broken beer bottle in his fists when he struck her. The glass had cut across her cheek, instantly drawing blood and a sharp, sudden pain. Éponine remembered bursting into tears; she'd still been so young. Clutching a dirty rag to her cheek, she'd choked out in her tears, "You mustn't hit your children! That isn't what fathers are meant to do!" And she recalled the horror she felt as her father, having already sat back down, slurred, "Children? What children? You are mistaken, _mademoiselle_, for I haven't any children ... what would I want with a bunch of little brats running underfoot, sobbing? I'd want no business with such filthy creatures. No, no, I have no children. Never shall."

In her hands, Éponine took the ragged skirt that was her sister's and wrung out the water. Wrung out the memories. She watched in a sort of trance as the murky water dribbled from the damp, once-white fabric, where it dropped onto the cobblestones and pooled between the cracks.

**::**

When they first arrived in Paris, Azelma had quickly learned she could no longer rely on Maman and Papa to take care of her, that they didn't love her anymore. She'd been small, but this she was old enough to understand. She could tell all this from the way they behaved, but what she didn't understand was _why_. She was also far too small to know how to take care of herself. So when Maman and Papa denied her, Azelma had turned to her sister.

Éponine was always so clever. Éponine always knew what to do. Éponine knew how to take care of herself, and she was the only person Azelma had left to look up to. And unlike Maman and Papa, Éponine had taken on an almost motherly role, and cared for Azelma, despite being only a year older. And the youngest of the Thénardier daughters was bound to her sister more than anyone else on this Earth, trusted and _believed_ in her wholeheartedly. If something was wrong, she always told herself that Éponine would come and put it right, that Éponine would do something.

And usually, she did.

Now Azelma was no longer a little girl. She was a young woman, nearing seventeen, like her sister would be turning today. She hadn't grown much, she still could have easily been as young as twelve. But she was still older. Éponine was always telling her, "You cannot continue to rely on me, you know. One day you shall have to learn to look after yourself."

"Whyever should I?" was Azelma's usual retort. "I shall always have you ... shan't I?"

She didn't like it when Éponine talked like that. She didn't like to think of not having her sister. Her life had been a confusing jumble of happiness and misery, loving parents and neglectful ones, proper hearty meals and hunger, and unlike her sister, Azelma had trouble adapting to it all. But if there was one constant in he life, the one thing that never, ever changed, it was Éponine. Éponine had always been there for her, had always cared for her. Azelma didn't like to think of it all being gone, of a time when she would live without Éponine. Or, that seemed to be what Éponine was implying.

Now Azelma was delivering letters. There weren't many today. Papa — she still called him that, even if Éponine didn't — had used up his inkwell and had not been able to write more than a few. For this, Azelma was glad. It meant that she'd be able to run off with her sister and meet Gavroche sooner. She knew that she could not buy her sister a present, not like she used to as a child, when she'd buy Éponine a sugar candy at the shop down the road. She'd always done that, only she used to buy two and eat one on the way home. But she did have a ten-_sous_ piece, one she'd found lying on the ground one incredibly fateful day, which she would give her sister when the time came. It was a good present, she thought, considering how little they had.

**::**

By late afternoon, as promised, his sisters arrived to meet him by the stone elephant. Gavroche, who was sitting on a crate he'd dragged over from the street, leapt to his feet and raced to meet them as they crossed the square. "Oi! Ya came!"

Each of his sisters bent to hug him, and Gavroche noted the way they had done what they could to look pretty for the occasion: the way Azelma had attempted to tie her auburn curls back in a messy bun. The dirt partially washed off both their faces; they'd done what they could, but it was always impossible to truly be rid of the filth in the slums. The way Éponine had clearly pinched her cheeks to give them some color. Gavroche had not made any effort to fancy himself up, and he dismissed the behavior of his sisters with a sort of mental scoff. _Girls._

"_C'mon_, ladies." Gavroche pressed once hugs had been exchanged. He was impatient to give his sister the bread, and take them both to the opera house. The concert was due to begin at seven o'clock, but it was now past five and it was a long walk from the Place San-Michel. And then there was the socializing, which would take place as they walked, and socializing would slow them down. "C'mon, then. Here, let's find a nice place to sit, shall we? I've a present for ya, 'Ponine."

Surprise flashed over Éponine's face. "A present, you say?" she echoed. "Why, that's ... " She seemed a loss for words.

"It is proof I am the very best brother you could wish for." Gavroche's grin was smug. He turned on his heel and took off down the street, his sisters following close darted along until reaching the Musain, where Gavroche pushed open the door and led his sisters up the stairs to the secret room (which wasn't really a secret anymore, with the police becoming so involved, and hadn't truly been in the first place as it had always been fully visible) but he still liked to call it that.

The meeting place of _les amis_ was the same as it always was, with Enjolras' graffiti and pamphlets covering the walls. Azelma's jaw dropped, forming a small _O._ Since Éponine's last visit, more French flags had been added to the walls, their colors loud and bright and full of promise. The tables were covered in wine bottles, some still with liquid in them. Éponine picked one up and took a sip, then quickly spat it out in disgust and dropped the bottle. "Heavens. Whatever _is_ that? Not wine."

"Sometimes Grantaire likes to drink whiskey or vodka," Gavroche answered bluntly. He seated himself at a table and indicated his sisters should do the same. Éponine did so, but Azelma was still gawking at the room. When she realized she was being stared at, she quickly dropped into a seat.

"Forgive me," she muttered, then added, "It's just that, I don't understand. These meeting of yours, Gav ... they are not legal, are they? I'm quite sure the law would never allow such a revolution to take place."

The laugh that came from Gavroche was sharp and bitter, not the sort of laugh a boy of ten should be making. "Ha!" he said again, and for Azelma, it was enough of an answer, and if it wasn't, the silence afterwards confirmed it.

"Well now," Azelma spoke up, clearing her throat. "I've a gift for you, 'Ponine, and perhaps Gav has too." From her pocket she produced a single coin, which she handed across the table to her sister. Éponine took it. She didn't say thank you. For when you had as little as the Thénardier sisters, a thank you would simply not suffice. How could it? A thank you was so formal, so banal. Instead, the tremulous smile on her lips showed Azelma just how much this ten-_sous_ piece meant.

Gavroche brought out a loaf of white bread from inside his vest. How he had been hiding it, Éponine did not know. To this, too, she did not give a thank you, instead taking it in her hands and tearing it into three chunks, giving one piece each to her siblings and keeping one for herself. This the siblings ate hungrily and without any formality, tearing their teeth into the bread's white flesh.

"So," Gavroche said, wiping bread crumbs from his mouth. "The opera, then? I think I should like to attend the opera now." Without waiting for an answer, he got to his feet, and, taking each of his sisters' hands, he hauled them to their feet. "We don't want to be late, do we, ladies?"

Éponine laughed and linked arms with her sister. With her free hand, she ruffled Gavroche's hair and took the stairs at a trot, Azelma stumbling behind her with a giggle, and Gavroche passing them easily and bounding ahead. They did not wind up chatting on the long walk to the opera house, instead they went in silence.

It was the first happiness Éponine had known in a long while. For once, her thoughts were not taken over by M'sieur Marius and her love for him, not taken over by her hatred of the Lark, not taken over by a fear of her father, of Montparnasse.

It wouldn't last, of course.

It never did.


	13. Tick Tock, And All Too Soon

**Until the Earth is Free**

Warning: Contains some minor sexual content and implications of rape. Reader discretion is therefore advised.

**::**

Chapter Thirteen: Tick Tock, and All Too Soon

_August 22, 1831__  
_286 days left__

Somewhere in the slums of the city, a rat scurried amongst the mud and the cracked, worn cobblestones. The rat's fur was matted and dirty and its little rat claws scoured out food amongst discarded items whose origin it could never comprehend. Eventually, it managed to discover a chunk of bread — stale and moldy, but such things do not matter to rats. The creature ate in bites that were quick and precise, until the bread was finished and it went off to find more fuel. From the rooftops, a large bird swooped down with a screech. It had found its own meal. The rat shot into a broken wine bottle lying on the ground with a squeal, where the bird's beak and talons could not reach it. The bird, meanwhile, having lost its prey, flew off, and when at last it was safe to emerge and do so, the rat continued its quest.

Elsewhere in Paris, Cosette walked arm in arm with her father through the Place San-Michel. Neither she nor her Papa fit in amongst the filth and the beggars, both of which the square had plenty of. Her Papa's waistcoat and top hat, Cosette's fine ivory-colored gown, bonnet, and gleaming locks stood out, and they instantly drew attention. She was busy helping him give out alms to the poor, their weekly activity of charity and kindness, and so Cosette was well accustomed to seeing humanity rotting away and suffering, and she was used to doing what she could to offer her aid. Old men and women huddled together, their frail bodies hacking and coughing, barely able to sit up and offer thanks when the precious coins were pressed into their weathered palms. It pained Cosette to see them all the same, and sometimes the people appeared so ill she was forced to look away for a moment. Mostly, she felt warmed by giving out the coins and bread to the urchins. The street children would crowd around her and Papa, shouting with their palms out in hope, laughing when money was pressed into them. They looked just as wretched as the other beggars around them — their faces just as dirty and their clothes just as ragged **— **but there was something in their grins, in the shine of their young eyes, that made them stand out. "Thank you, _mademoiselle_ and _monsieur_!" their young voices would chirp. They still knew to hope, for they were too young to understand they'd been born into a world that had already decided on a fate for them, and that fate was none too kind.

But when at last the little sacks of money they'd brought with them were emptied of the very last _sou_ and their baskets had been stripped of every last crumb, Cosette and her Papa made their way out of the square and into a waiting carriage, which would take them to the opera house. Usually, Valjean would never treat himself to such outings, but Cosette had read about this opera in the papers, a short article at the back, and had wanted to go for over a week now. So Valjean agreed, because he always felt terrible if he told her no. When he'd accepted her request, his sixteen-year-old daughter had smiled radiantly and thrown her arms around his neck and an "Oh, _thank_ you, Papa, truly!", and it was at times like these the man felt a little better about himself.

**::**

Éponine, meanwhile, was taken aback by just how grand the opera house was. A high domed ceiling was ornate with paintings of angels lounging on clouds in what were presumably the heavens and etchings of golden leaves. Marble pillars towered over her, carved with more angels, and the floor beneath her bare feet was a mosaic of beautiful shades of blue and green. The walls were covered in portraits and pencil sketches of famous French artists like Pierre Prudhon and Eugénie Charen, along with flyers for the day's show, its title something in Italian that Éponine didn't understand. Ladies in ridiculous shawls and hats held their husband's arms and showed their tickets to men in waistcoats, who led the couples from the waiting room to their seats. One couple had brought their daughter, a young thing of seven or so, and just as done up. She was whining, bored with the idea of going to the opera when she could be playing with her dolls at home. Her mother said to her with a mouth that did not fail to maintain a false smile, "Adéle, you shall do no such thing. To attend the opera with your family is good breeding, and whatever shall our dear friends think if they do not see you tonight … ?" Everything about this opera house was grand and enchanting, and Éponine was not sure whether to love or hate the place.

Gavroche, who had taken her hand at some point while she'd been busy, gawking, looked up at his sister now. "Well, then, 'Ponine. Whatever do ya think? Ain't it beautiful?" When he received no answer, he turned to the other sister. "'Zelma?" But Azelma was also busy staring, and Gavroche decided to allow them to take in the grandeur of the place before slipping them in. He did not, of course, have the money to pay for seats, but he did have the mind to sneak in and hide at the back. It was easy; he'd done it before plenty of times.

He waited a while longer, then tugged on the corner of Éponine's shawl, this time managing to catch her attention. "'Ponine? We really should be getting in now, ya know. Else it'll grow too crowded, and we shall be spotted." She nodded in understanding, and after managing to snap Azelma from her own reverie, the Thénardier siblings made their way up some back stairs. Inside, the room was just as grand, the arched ceiling covered in more paintings of angels and what Éponine assumed might be the Garden of Eden. The seats were organized in tight rows and made of plush red velvet that reminded Éponine of the one nice settee they'd owned back at the inn. Gavroche pointed them to a tight area between the wall and the seats at the very back, most of which remained unoccupied. There was only enough room for someone as small as Gavroche to fit comfortably, and Éponine found herself pressed flat with her knees folded under her. Even so, she could not be rid of her thrill.

In excitement, the siblings held onto each other and waited for the show to begin. It did take a while, with seemingly every woman heading to the ladies' room and opera glasses being purchased to see the stage and the other audience members **— **one never knew when something delightfully scandalous might be spotted and be used for gossip.

But at last the curtains were opened, and the stage revealed nothing but a single female singer in an elaborate dress and blonde hair done up in a fancy bun. The violins began to play and the woman began to sing in Italian. Éponine didn't understand the words. She didn't understand the meaning of the song. She didn't even especially like the tune, or the singer, for it felt the woman onstage was simply singing the words and not feeling them. But _something_ about the piece intrigued Éponine. Perhaps it was the experience of it all. Perhaps it was the fact that for once, she was happy — truly happy, and the opera was just part of it all.

Of course, nothing ever lasts.

It all started with someone catching sight of them, not far into the third song. It was a somewhat cheerful melody, and the costumes worn by the singers had made Azelma giggle softly. They were heard and spotted by one of the orderlies. "You there! You filthy street scum! Come out of there this instant or I shall call the police!" he'd hissed.

They'd gotten up and run. This hadn't been terribly disappointing, in fact Éponine had been expecting, bracing herself for something like this to happen. The run down the back stairs was almost exhilarating. Grabbing Azelma's hand and dragging her up to her feet. Tripping over each other, pushing. Going down the stairs in a tumble of limbs and laughter.

There was something enchanting about it, though Éponine did not quite know what.

She was ahead of her siblings now, and she could see the back exit door. Pushing it open, Éponine tumbled out into the street **— **and careening directly into a young bourgeoisie passing by. The young lady stumbled with an exclamation of, "Oh!" and she steadied herself, but causing Éponine to go sprawling face-first onto the pavement in the process. She felt her elbow scrape roughly against the cobblestones and winced.

A small, slim, hand reached out to her. Not Azelma's, but that of the rich young lady. Éponine, somewhat startled by this act of simple kindness, took the hand gratefully as the bourgeoisie pulled her to her feet. Now she looked into the face of the rich girl, and her heart stopped.

A sweet, pretty face, with gleaming and neatly combed dark blonde locks spilling over slim shoulders. A bemused half-smile on perfect Cupid's lips, that mouth opening to let out a soft giggle. Blue eyes twinkling as she laughed gently. Dear God. It was her. The Lark. When she took Éponine in properly for the first time, the Lark frowned. She recognized Éponine, but she could not quite recall where she'd seen her.

Éponine, meanwhile, could do nothing else but gape. Emotions coursed through her body furiously, emotions she did not know, did not understand, could not name. There was anger and envy and confusion and hatred, all burning together at once. The Lark's eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but then the old man had arrived and taken her arm. "Cosette! Cosette, there you are … do not run ahead again, please, my love … I'm sure I thought I had lost you … " With a brief, respectful nod of the head aimed at Éponine and her siblings, who'd materialized behind her, the old man led the Lark away.

"Whoever was that?" Azelma asked. Éponine could only shake her head.

**::**

They parted ways then. Gavroche ran off to his stone elephant, while Éponine and Azelma returned to the Gorbeau tenement. Those same stairs she always dreaded mounting were in front of her, taunting her. She placed one foot on the first step, which creaked in rebellion. Another step. Another groan of protest.

She allowed herself to take a long time before reaching the top, and Azelma, climbing just behind her, did not complain. Because Éponine knew that when she did, the nightmare and hell that was her life would return in a whirling rush, mercilessly.

As Éponine squeezed through the narrow corridor, she spied Marius exiting his own apartment. When he saw her, her broke into the same grin that never failed to shatter her heart every time he flashed it. "'Ponine," Marius said. "Why, what a pleasant surprise. I'm sure that I did not expect to see you tonight."

Éponine couldn't help but blush. Behind her, Azelma slipped by and entered their own family flat. "Well, _m'sieur_, I am here. I dreaded coming, as I often do, but seeing you has made it worth it."

Marius gave a playful bow, to which she responded with a mock curtsy. "I do like it when you tease," he told his friend. "Now, is it not your seventeenth birthday today? Yes, I'm quite sure it is … am I right?"

Her face lit up. "You've remembered!"

"You are my very best friend. Of course I remember. Why, how could I not? Allow me to take this moment to wish you the very best today. Tonight."

She kissed his cheek, startling him. Sometimes she was too bold by half, but Marius did not hate her for it. In fact, her boldness was one of things he liked about Éponine. He smiled at her, and after a goodbye, he continued down the corridor and down the flight of creaking stairs.

Éponine stared after him, unsure of how to feel. She wondered where he was going. To see the Lark, no doubt. She swallowed hard before turning and entering the apartment behind her sister.

It was empty, save for Claquesous seated at the table with a bottle of wine in his fist. Azelma was crying softly, and Éponine spoke up in anger. "Whatever have you done to her?!"

"Just asked where the bloody 'ell you was," he answered in a slur. "Shook her by the wrist, and brat started to cry. What can I do? I'll ask you instead, then." He blinked, as if trying to keep himself awake. "Where the 'ell were ya both?"

"We were out," Éponine answered in a clipped tone.

"Out? Very well. I'll … tell … Daddy that." Claquesous seemed to have difficulty forming the words, for next he blinked harder and keeled over, passed out from the alcohol. Éponine stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and turned to her sister.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He did my wrist," Azelma returned between sniffles. "He shook me hard; and he frightens me so!"

"Hush," Éponine said gently. "Hush, it'll be all right. Why don't you get some precious rest now, 'Zelma? Sleep on Thénardier's bed. You were awake early today, and — no, no, don't worry, he shan't be back 'til morning … "

Azelma obeyed, crawling into the bed, which stank of alcohol and urine, but had more space than the one she shared with her sister in the back room. Éponine took the small bed, closing the door behind her and, for good measure, locked it. Not that it would help much — the lock on that door had never worked properly, and a good rattle of the doorknob would serve just as well as the key. She locked it anyway. Tucking the flimsy fabric of the blanket around her bony frame, she allowed her mind to wander to bitter thoughts of the Lark, and of Marius, and she cried herself to sleep.

**::**

Back in the wealthy neighborhoods, Gavroche walked the streets. The sky had darkened very quickly with little consideration for the beauty of a sunset. Now the blackness was dotted with stars, each a beacon of false hopes to cling to before their light died out. The young urchin wrapped his vest tightly around his small body and ignored the hisses and sneers of the rich citizens he passed. He maintained a skip to his step, an overconfident grin, and began to whistle a merry tune. Those rich gents liked the world of finery and happiness they'd built for themselves, and to see misery in that world shattered the illusion. They did not want "poor street scum" to ruin the false promises they'd made for themselves.

The ten-year-old entered the ramshackle bakery, which was still open despite the late hour. The same ruddy-cheeked baker stood behind the counter, and his eyes flashed when he saw Gavroche coming in. "Why! You again! Whatever do you want? Come to beg for more scraps?"

"No," Gavroche said brightly. "Come to get me money's worth. I gave ya a whole Franc earlier today, _m'sieur_, and I'm sure the bread I bought cost quite a lot less than that. Ya never gave me my change." He wished he could prove his point with the list of prices that hung in the window, but he didn't know how to read.

The baker sneered. "Well, well, well, what do you know? You _have_ come begging for scraps." His voice rose. "Do you want me to call the police, you little brat?"

"Nah. Don't bother with the coppers, good _m'sieur_. Just gimme the change ya owe me and have done with it. Why, it'll make things much easier fer the both us. Ain't that so?"

The baker walked around the counter and, with the strength of a drunk, lifted Gavroche by the scruff of the neck, kicked open his door, and tossed the young boy out on the streets as if he weighed no more than the burnt bread he threw out back. "I intend to keep your kind out of here, boy! If you return I shall have you arrested. Away with you!" The door slammed shut and was promptly locked, the curtains drawn, and the baker closed the shop a full hour earlier than he usually did.

Gavroche shook himself off and scowled furiously. That money had cost him precious time to collect. He knew every trick to picking pockets, and knew that when it came to doing so, one should take the little coins, not the big bills. If a man discovered his thousand Francs were gone, he'd call the police. If one _sou_ was missing, he would assume he'd spent the coin and forgotten. To collect one entire Franc one _sou_ at a time was not easy. Now his efforts had been wasted, and he'd spend the night hungry. Again.

Gavroche was not easy to silence, but tonight, he returned to his elephant with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his head bowed. The rat hiding from the bird. And the glinting stars above laughed spitefully.

**::**

Her dreams were spun fresh of the lies she told herself in her mind when awake. They were bright and happy, and the tiniest of smiles played on her lips as she slept.

She was in a palace-like room, and it took her a moment to recognize this room as the lobby of the opera house, but it was empty. She still wore her rags, but for some reason, she did not feel as if she stood out. She sat down on the red velvet settee she'd had at the inn and sipped sweet wine in a fine crystal glass. The door opened and Marius emerged, dressed in a waistcoat with his cockade pinned to his lapel. He smiled. He was happy to see her. He joined her on the settee. His hands came around her and she put down the wine glass.

Now his hands were in her hair, which she now realized was no longer stringy and dirty, but gleaming and curled slightly. He was running his hands through it, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he pulled her in for the kiss. When it came, it tasted of sweet wine and fresh bread and she closed her eyes in bliss. Yes. This was how it should be, how it should always be. She was happy to give herself in to him.

If she was going to give herself to a man, then she had always wanted it to be Marius. She'd told herself this the first day she'd met him. He was the only man she'd ever allow herself to give her body to. But then Montparnasse had come and taken it first. Right now, though, she thought not of Montparnasse but of Marius. Marius who was kissing her and loved her. She knew this as his hand reached up to stroke the side of her face, as it reached up to caress her leg.

Perhaps Montparnasse did not exist in this dream world she'd fabricated for herself. She wished she could live in it forever, but nothing good ever lasted for her. Éponine was taken from her dream by Azelma crawling into the bed next to her, whispering, "Papa came home. He's cross I was in his bed … " and then she was asleep again.

But Éponine was left awake, left only to reflect on that _other_ world and knowing it could never be her reality. _Too soon_, she thought to herself. _All too soon …_


	14. You And I Must Die

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: The lines of poetry appearing in this chapter in French were not written by me, of course, they were written by poet André Chénier. However, the first poem Cosette reads to Marius is not a real poem, that one I wrote for the story. I am aware the lines of this poem would likely sound awkward in French, but as a fanfiction author, I'm clearly taking liberties. ~Annalie

**::**

Chapter Fourteen: You and I Must Die

_September 5, 1831  
271 days left_

From the dark shadows of a back alley littered with shards of broken glass and omnifarious items of rotting foodstuff, a stray cat slunk through the streets. She was just as bony as any other street cat, her tabby fur just as matted, but she held herself with a certain dignity atypical of the average stray, her head and long tail so thin it was almost ratlike held high in the air. She padded along the cobblestoned street, invisible to the humans. But the humans were not invisible to her, despite the fact she did not understand any of them. The cat passed the factories, where workers spilled from cramped back doors, their worn faces streaked in sweat and soot as they wiped dirty hands on equally soiled trousers. The factory girls left from the other side in tight-knit little clusters, already chattering and gossiping. She pattered on past them, unnoticed and insignificant as the cobblestones they stepped on. The cat passed through the worst slums, where the smallest of the urchins scuttled forth on their haunches to stroke her matted fur. She yowled, darted away, not knowing of the crushed expressions left on their faces. She was out for herself, and her kits, who were now mewling for food and for their mother in the alleyway where she'd left them. She cared for and thought little of anything and anyone else. Perhaps one day, those kits would have a good life. Occasionally, some of the wealthier humans would find a stray kitten they took fancy to, while it was still young and cute, and bring them to their homes. It was the only hope a stray had. She was too old for anyone to want her, but there still remained hope for her kits, and she awaited that day with patience. The odds were low, but existent. For now, though, she still had to feed them. Her five kits were still so young their eyes had not yet opened fully, and it was up to her to hunt. The cat continued on her journey through the alleys, her nose twitching, insignificant as a shadow.

Cosette sat in her garden, a book of poetry by André Chénier open on her lap. She was not reading it, however, far too preoccupied in her own daydreams. They were such girlish daydreams, she knew, and chided herself for it. Childish fantasies of love and ballroom dancing. She imagined herself in a large dancing hall with Marius. He held her close, and she pressed her body against his as his hands ran gently through her locks of hair, which fell against her slim shoulders in gentle curls, like fresh-spun golden silk. She raised her head slightly and he bent his. Their lips brushed against each other's in the briefest whisper of kisses, sending a tingling sensation through her body. Then they parted, falling back into the comfortable pattern of the waltz.

Cosette woke from her reverie with a shake of her head. She oughtn't be thinking such things. It was silly. The dreams of a schoolgirl. And thinking it was silly was also silly, because in truth, they had kissed more times than she could count. Even so, she could not help but allow a smile to bless her lips. Behind her, the door opened and she saw her Papa coming out from the building. He must be going to the bakery now, as he'd told her he would earlier. Cosette, feeling as if she'd been caught doing something dreadful, instantly blushed and pretended to go on reading. The blush and stubborn smile that refused to go away did not fail to catch Papa's attention, and he paused. "Are you quite all right, Pet?"

She nodded. "Yes, Papa. It's just, the poem I am reading is so very lovely. It's distracted me. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Why, you needn't apologize. There is nothing to be sorry for. Now, I'll be off to the bakery now, as I said. Are you quite certain you don't wish to join me?"

Cosette nodded again. "Yes, Papa. Only if it is all right with you, of course."

"It is. I might be a while, though: I was intending to exchange words with the priest on my way back. I've business to discuss with him."

"I know, Papa. Really though, I shall be fine here with Chénier to keep me company."

"Very well, love. I promise I shall be back by 9:30 at the latest, then. Is that all right with you, my Pet?" When she smiled and nodded, Papa went on walking. He opened the gate, stepped through, locked it behind him. Cosette watched him go and fingered her key, which hung on a thin metal chain around her neck and was tucked into the collar of her dress. Marius was to be here soon. Sighing, she turned to her poetry book again.

**::**

Two hours earlier, Marius had been sitting on his bed in the Gorbeau House, trying to ignore the way the old mattress creaked every time he shifted in the slightest way. He, too, was trying to read his book **— **a work of Miss Jane Austen's translated into French, per Cosette's fervent recommendation. But the thought of his visit to see her again tonight, which the two had planned three nights ago, when last they'd met, distracted him. Every few minutes, he would produce his pocket watch and stare at it before stuffing it back into his pocket. Before long, he felt the urge to see it again and yet again pulled it out. Five thirty. Five thirty-four. Five thirty-seven. Five forty. Five forty-one. Oh, heavens, why was it still five forty-one? Could time go by any slower? He was meant to meet her at seven thirty.

Marius went on trying to read, but the light outside was going and he found himself squinting in the faint flicker emitted by his two candles. It had been a long time since he'd sold his oil-lamp, and now he regretted the decision.

His stomach growled, and he realized he had not eaten all day. Yesterday, he'd purchased some bread and cheese, an apple. But he had never gotten round to eating them. From his satchel, he pulled them out, along with a small pocket knife to cut the fruit. It was slightly bruised, and the bread had gone tough, but both were still perfectly edible.

The door creaked open slightly, and there in the frame the light illuminated the thin form of Éponine. She was watching him and the food with mournful brown eyes, and instantly Marius stood, approached the door, and pulled it open wider. "Éponine," he said, smiling, "Why, what a pleasant surprise. Do come in. Have something to eat. You must be hungry." He stepped aside as she entered and hurriedly pulled out the desk chair for her while he himself sank back onto the bed. Éponine ignored his gesture and took a seat next to him on the bed. Marius assumed she'd rather sit there and shifted to the chair himself, which caused Éponine to give him a funny look, but it flickered over her face as briefly as the dancing flame of the weak candlelight. So he only smiled at her. "There is bread, cheese, and apple. The bread is a bit hard, and the apple bruised, but … "

She was smiling at him again. "I should hardly mind. I'm grateful." She waited as he tore the bread into two halves, sliced the cheese, the apple. Then she took it in one hand and wolfed it all down in just a few bites, oblivious or uncaring to the apple juice dribbling down her chin. Marius watched her, blinking, then offered her his handkerchief, which she took and absently used to wipe at her chin before placing it back on the table. Marius finished his bread with cheese and his half of the apple more slowly, while she watched him. An awkward blanket of silence fell between them.

"I've not seen you in a few days," Marius remarked.

Éponine shrugged. "Nor have I you. I've missed you, you know, _m'sieur_." She fiddled with her omnipresent green plaid shawl. "And how is my brother? I trust you've seen him since, at those meetings of yours at the Musain."

"He's well," Marius said, nodding, glad for a distraction from the previous awkward situation. "He's a clever boy. He knows how to take care of himself. Forgive me for saying so, but I do believe that the life he has on the streets is better than the one he could have had with your family."

Éponine nodded. "Forgive you? But why, when there is nothing to forgive? I believe in that fully." Her gaze skirted across the drab room. "When my mother told him she no longer wanted to care for him and he ran off, I remember him telling me he was glad of it. And when we ran into each other a year later on the streets, I cannot tell you how happy I was for him. In that year, 'Zelma and I constantly worried for him, feared he'd died of hunger or of the cold. That winter was a harsh one."

"Oh, I remember that winter. It was the same winter we met and I befriended you."

A timid smile passed briefly over her lips. "I remember it fully and fondly. I do believe my life became slightly better that day. You were kind to me, and I was so very taken by you, a wealthy **— **and quite handsome, too, I might add** — **young student living in the slums."

Marius laughed, then his fingers found his pocket watch again. His fingers brushed the cool metal as he pulled it out and examined it. He knew it was rude of him, but how much time had passed since he'd last checked. One glance confirmed it **— **precisely 26 minutes. And the walk from here to Rue Plumet was a long one. Quickly he stood, and Éponine stared up at him.

"Forgive me," Marius had told her, reaching for his vest. "But I must go. I've a meeting to attend, and I mustn't be late."

Éponine stood as well. "A meeting, you say? With your friends?"

"No," Marius shook his head. "That shall be tomorrow."

She stepped back. "_Oh_," she said. Her voice went cold, though why, Marius could not fathom. "You're to see _her_, are you not?"

Marius hated it when Éponine got this way, hated it when she suddenly grew cold and distant with him. It always happened in a heartbeat: at one moment she was friendly and laughing, the next she got like this. Her behavior always upset him, because he felt as though he should feel guilty for something. He felt as though she was angry with him for some reason. But if he asked her whatever was the matter, she would always avert her eyes and tell him not to fret, that it was nothing. And then she'd leave. Right now, he didn't know what to do, so he only nodded and told her, "I'm to see Cosette, if that's what you mean."

"It's certainly what I mean," she muttered. He bid her farewell and hurried from the room, eager to get to Cosette and away from the situation.

Éponine had stayed behind and watched him go. She waited for a long time before slowly drawing her knees up to her chest, burying her face there, and sobbed silently. The tears made the dirt on her face run and they fell in dirty blotches onto her skirt.

**::**

At seven-thirty, Cosette got to her feet and saw Marius strolling down the road, his satchel bouncing against his legs as he walked and his cockade pin bright and proud against the lapel of his brown vest. She smiled and raced across the garden, freeing her spare key and opening the gates for him just as he arrived. He didn't wait to step through before he kissed her. His arm wrapped around her waist and he lifted her up in the air as their lips met, causing her to squeal in surprised delight and ruin it all.

"That dress suits you well," Marius said when at last she'd shut and locked the gates, and led him to the stone bench where they now sat. Or perhaps more accurately: he sat on the bench, she in his lap, her head against his shoulders. She wasn't perched on his knee as he used to do on Papa's lap as a child. Marius pressed her against his body just so, as a lover might. It was just like in her daydreams. That was what Cosette loved about Marius: he seemed to her a prince stepped from the pages of the fairy stories she read as a little girl. He was handsome and chivalrous and romantic, but most importantly of all, he loved her deeply and treated her like an equal. Many rich gentlemen often did not treat their wives and lovers as equals, but as property, and Cosette knew that. She'd seen it happen before. Her Marius wasn't like that.

Now, she blushed and smiled softly, her fingers finding the fabric of her dress. It wasn't new, but it was one of her favorites. It was a shade just off white and the hem was patterned in a print of roses. She didn't wear it often because she always worried about dirtying it. But today, she'd wanted to show it to him. "That pin of yours suits you well," she returned. "I've always admired it. It's struck me as a mark of pride and strength."

"It's a mark of the little … er, club I am a member of. With my friends. I've told you about it."

Cosette smiled. "Is it? Oh. Well, as I've said. It suits you." She paused, then a thought occurred to her and she smiled even more broadly. "I say. Are you familiar with the poetry of André Chénier?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Why, a terrible pity," Cosette shook her head. "But not something we cannot remedy." She opened the book and began to read to him from the poem which opened the book. It was not that of Chénier, but by an anonymous poet. She told him so, and he nodded, responding by telling her he'd gladly listen to her read anything, Chénier or not, if only to hear her voice. This caused her to giggle again and swat playfully at his arm. She cleared her throat, and began to read: "_In time shall come a time when we discover it has all been a lie / In time shall come a time we all must part this plane / When our lives fade whether in weary old bodies or torn from us brutally in screams and blood / In time shall come a time when you and I must die. In time shall come a time when the weary gods shall give us up / In time shall come a time when _– " She stopped reading and studied Marius' face, and frowned. "Oh! You don't like it."

"It's morbid. That's all," Marius shook his head. "I'd rather not continue. Read another poem."

"It's honest," Cosette protested.

"I only see how very morbid and miserable it is. Forgive me for saying so."

"The truth often is," she answered, but went on, "But I can see you shall merely be stubborn about it all and there shan't be any changing your mind. Here. Why do I not read to you from Chénier, as we agreed before?"

"That sounds lovely."

She read him her favorite Chénier poem, _Comme un Dernier Rayon_. "_Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier zephyr / Animent la fin d'un beau jour / Au pied de l'échafaud j'essaye encor ma lyre._"

And they lost themselves to the world of Chénier, of the words, and of each other.

**::**

_September 6, 1831  
270 days left_

Morning came like a taunt to Éponine the next day. She'd cried herself to sleep in Marius' bed last night, and now she discovered he'd returned and hadn't kicked her out. Instead, he had tucked a blanket over her before settling down to sleep in his chair. His chair was where he sat now, a thin sheet which he'd wrapped around his body fallen in white folds on the floor like sea foam and his head lolling in time with his slight snores. His little act of kindness stung. Éponine kicked off the blanket and slipped out of Marius' room in silence.

In the apartment, her father was sitting at the rickety table with an omnipresent bottle of beer clutched in his fist. He was also fully conscious, and his head snapped up to look at her when she stepped into the ramshackle apartment, brushing aside the burnt pipe that lay discarded on the dirty floor with one toe. The grip of his fist around the bottle tightened until his knuckles went white and she feared he might shatter the glass. _Damn, _she thought to herself, free to curse in her own mind. When he spoke to her, his words were slurred and his tongue thick. "Where the 'ell 'ave you been, eh, you bloody stupid brat?"

Éponine closed the door behind her and pressed herself against it. "Ye gods! Must I always tell you?"

"You're my daughter! You'll do as I say!" he thundered, and threw the bottle at her. She ducked instantly, and it shattered against the door where her head had been. She was splashed in the face by the remaining liquid, and she sputtered.

"I do what I wish," she said, trying to remain calm. "And you of all people should know that, I should think." She walked past him and into the little room she shared with Azelma. From behind the door, she could hear her younger sister snoring softly. Good. She was asleep. Heavens knew she needed it.

"My, you're a troublesome brat," he leered at her. "A burden. And after _all_ I've done for you, all the _sacrifices_ I've made, all the … the … " He trailed off, perhaps too drunk to find the words. Éponine ignored him, and spat on the ground before stepping through the door.

**::**

Jean Prouvaire and Grantaire were meeting at a local café **— **not the Musain, but a larger, better-lit place closer to Jehan's home — for a coffee and biscuits in the mid-morning. Or, more accurately, Jean Prouvaire was having a coffee and biscuits. Grantaire was ordering wine.

"Merciful heavens! So very early? Do forgive me for saying so, but at ten in the morning, _monsieur_?" the waiter asked. "Surely _monsieur_ would want his wine with his dinner, in the evening?"

Grantaire looked up at the portly young man standing over their table. "I am a drunk," said Grantaire emphatically. "And I shall have wine at ten in the morning if I wish."

"Very well, _monsieur_," said the waiter, and left, though in his voice there was still a trace of doubt.

"Heavens, Grantaire, my friend," Jehan clucked. "You _are_ a drunkard."

"Ah, yes, but you already knew that," replied Grantaire, causing Jehan to laugh and shake his head. Afterwards, the friends said nothing until their drinks and small assortment of biscuits arrived. The biscuits came on a small china dish with a doily.

"I do hope you won't be drinking terribly much at tonight's meeting," remarked Jean Prouvaire in a suddenly hushed tone.

"I wouldn't count on it," was Grantaire's blunt answer, and he laughed.

Almost an hour later, when the drinks and biscuits had been paid for, the two friends began to walk down the street together. They talked not of their revolution, for they daren't discuss such matters on the streets in public, especially when not a few paces away was a police inspector on duty, standing rigid as a wooden pole. The pair talked of the banal things passersby would expect to hear from the mouths of two young students in their twenties. This was talk of women, and of papers due for their law course.

On their casual stroll in the morning, which was slightly cool for September, Jehan spied a crow. It cawed loudly to make itself known and perched itself on a nearby lamp-post, ruffling its omen-black feathers. Silly as it seemed for saying so, the young poet could not help but feel that the crow's eyes were following him, boring into him, and he suddenly remembered the bothersome crow he'd seen that day while writing in the cemetery.

"My word," Jehan muttered. "I don't believe it! Another crow. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same crow."

Grantaire laughed. "Don't tell me you believe a _crow_ is _following_ you now, Jehan? It's but a crow. A perfectly ordinary, everyday crow."

"No, no. When I was writing in the cemetery, there was a crow as well. But that was almost a month ago. Why is it I still remember?"

"Perhaps you shall break it from a spell, discover it is truthfully the long missing princess of a faraway kingdom, and marry it. We ought to give her a name. Simone? Marie? Gilbertte? Yes, she strikes me as a Gilbertte. It comes across in her beak."

Jehan laughed. Grantaire was right: he _was_ being silly. Childish. It had been a month since he'd seen the crow in the cemetery, and there was no way this could be the same crow. There were countless crows in Paris. He and Grantaire continued on, oblivious to the way the crow **— **whose name was now Gilbertte, apparently — took off from her perch on the lamp-post and flew along near the rooftops, following Jean Prouvaire.

Watching.

Waiting.


	15. Events Unplanned

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: An unforgivably short chapter upon my permanent return home because I am a terrible person. I will update soon, and hopefully, the next chapter will be suitably long. Also, please note that I've finally figured out a way to set Auto Correct to the UK setting, so you may notice some minor differences in spelling.

* * *

**::**

Chapter Fifteen: Events Unplanned

_September 16, 1831__  
__260 days left_

Life in the Place San-Michel went on as it normally did. The mid-September day was pleasant, a generous touch of sunshine without the sticky heat of the summertime. It had rained the day before, and the cobblestones were still slick and wet, leaving the square looking like a watercolour painting. As per usual, the Musain bustled with customers from all social classes, working class and rich, the doors of the café swinging open and shut. An old man sat hunched on the stoop leading up to a butcher's shop, weathered fingers reaching out in pleading, and a hat sat at his feet, a few generous coins scattered across its worn lining. A group of scruffy boys, no more than twelve or thirteen, played a game with an India-rubber ball that involved tossing it against a wall and catching it. The boys laughed and shouted, receiving dirty looks from the wealthier passers-by, and this only made them laugh harder. 'Neath the light of the gas lamps, a young mother huddled against the lamp-post knitting, her little child curled up and sleeping next to her. Every so often the toddler would stir, and she would shush him, patting his hair, before returning to her knitting. A handsome young gentleman with a fashionable walking stick passed through the square, earning several surreptitious glances from the ladies and schoolgirls, but they could not hold in their affections when he looked their way, and they'd burst into fits of giggles disguised as coughs. A few factory girls sipped coffee outside of a different café, their daughters playing together safely within eye's distance. The girls were ten years old or younger, and they had abandoned their game of Blind Man's Bluff and were now arguing amongst themselves, with hands on hips and stomps of the feet, the way children quarrel. They wanted to play Knights and Princesses, but the problem was that they all wanted to be the princess. A wealthy young woman of perhaps twenty-five stormed out of a café, her lover chasing after her and calling her name. She ignored him, hailing down a hansom cab and stepping into the carriage, closing the door and shutting out the pleads of her gentleman friend. He watched her go, then dropped to his knees and wept. A crowd of children ran past him, oblivious, laughing.

Amongst the crowd slipped Gavroche. He was small and quick enough that he remained fully unnoticed by the workers, appeared to simply be another urchin to the poor, and was pointedly ignored by the rich. A perfect formula. Hence, it was not difficult for him to slip one small hand into the back pocket of some rich gent and relieve him of his wallet, or to snatch an apple from the stand of a fruit vendor. Today's crowd was a good one and it treated him well.

The ten-year-old, when pleased with his day's collecting, made his way back to his stone elephant. He shimmied up the leg of the towering statue and crawled through the hole in its belly. His tiny body fit through the hole easily, and Gavroche curled up in a corner before turning out his pockets and counting the money in the wallet. The sum was immense, so he selected a few coins of a single Franc each, then crawled back out of the elephant and dropped the wallet with the remaining money onto the ground. This was how he picked pockets. He never took the wallet itself, for if the gentleman found it missing he would alert the police and accuse some urchin of stealing it. Then some other poor urchin would be given the blame, if the man suspected them. But if he took a few select coins then dropped the wallet nearby, the man might find it and assume he'd dropped it. It was, Gavroche rewarded himself, quite a genius operation and business he had running.

He returned to his elephant and examined the rest of what he had. There was the apple he'd nicked from the fruit vendor's stall, an ivory comb from a lady's handbag, and a small handful of single _sou_ coins, of which he counted nine in all.

Gavroche smiled to himself and tugged his blue vest tighter around his little body. Not necessarily out of cold, for the day outside was quite fine, but out of habit. He took the apple in one hand and bit into it. His teeth broke the thin red skin and sank deep into its juicy flesh with a satisfactory _crunch_. Curled up in his corner, he finished his apple in large, hungry, almost wolfish bites, before crawling over and dropping the core out of the hole in the stone elephant's belly. The core half bounced, rolled along for a minute before it became trapped under the wheel of a passing cart and was crushed. Its juice seeped into the cracks between the cobblestones like spilt wine.

**::**

Azelma Thénardier was lying flat on her back out front of the Gorbeau House. Above her, the clothes which had recently been laundered hung drying on a frayed rope strung up between a lamppost whose glass jar had long since broken and a hook by a downstairs window. It was rare that they washed their clothes, it was really a monthly ritual. Maman had surprisingly instructed her to help with the washing, and Azelma, who saw little point in doing so when their clothes were already so dirty there was no being rid of the stains anyhow, had started to protest and only obliged when Maman boxed her ears. Now the clothes hung pathetically on the clothesline, the water dripping and forming a small mud puddle on the ground below.

Upstairs, sounds of an angry meeting between Papa and the members of the Patron-Minette leaked out from the window. But they didn't reach her, for she'd managed to shut herself into her own mind for the time being, into a strange place where there were no drunken Papas and Mamans who shouted far more than they used to. Just her and the silence. She focused on the dripping water droplets and her hands, which were folded on her stomach and rode up and down in time with her breathing. In this mental realm she was at peace. Her mind was blank, and it was the only way she could allow herself the tiniest shred of happiness.

The illusion was shattered by an angry shout coming from upstairs. Maman's shout. "Azelma Thénardier!" Maman was loud, Maman was angry, Maman was mean. The sixteen-year-old shot to her feet and bolted into the building and took the stairs two at a time, which groaned in protest. She appeared in the doorway of their ramshackle apartment, huffing and puffing, to find it empty (Papa and the Patron-Minette must have left at some point) and the doorway occupied by Maman's wide figure. She spoke, her words clipped, staccato syllables of anger. "I've been calling you for over five minutes, you idle brat."

"I was daydreaming," Azelma answered. "Forgive me. What is it now?"

Maman stepped aside, and Azelma passed through the doorway. She didn't sit on the edge of the bed yet, but hovered nearby. "A letter of your father's to some singer at the theatre has been responded to. She shall be coming by later this evening. You must help to fix this place up." Azelma knew what _fix this place _up meant. It meant to make the apartment even more of a gutter than it already was. Ripping legs from chairs and tables, tearing the thin sheets on the bed. While they rarely had visitors come by out of charity, it had happened a few times before and it was these visits that contributed to just what a state the apartment was in.

Maman walked over to the open window, leaning out of it as if expecting the singer to come waltzing up the road in a carriage drawn by unicorns. "Wherever is that blasted useless sister of yours, anyhow?"

"Éponine?" Azelma asked innocently.

Maman stepped back and contemplated her, the scorn clear in her expression. "Have you any other sisters?"

"No … I've no idea where she is." Azelma shrugged and decided it was safe to sit on the edge of the bed now. "I shall do what I can. If 'Ponine comes I shall tell her to help me."

"You'd best do that." Maman left then, and Azelma asked not where to. She'd long since learned it was best not to ask such things. If she did, Maman might very well box her ears again. She stretched her limbs, then got to work. She tore at the bedsheets and began to work at ripping tears in the hem of her dress. She'd been at it for perhaps fifteen minutes when Éponine arrived.

Éponine sighed at the sight of her sister working away, so absorbed in her task that she didn't notice Éponine coming in. Éponine could very well guess what had happened, and she hated it. Hated the days they had to make their living quarters even more unpleasant, on the faint chance some rich gent might give them some money, money which Thénardier would spend on beer and not on food or proper clothes. She hated it even more when _m'sieur_ Marius came by and sometimes saw in just what a state the apartment was now, when he'd give her a look of sympathy. She hated his pity. And more than anything, she hated it when he came over and suggested his precious Cosette might be able to help them, for her father did charity business with the church. She hated it all.

After a short while, Éponine made herself known. "'Zelma? Who is it this time?" She prayed it would not be the Lark and her father.

But Azelma turned and simply answered, "A singer, Maman has told me. From the theatre. I delivered the letter three days ago; I don't believe you helped me that day."

A singer. Perhaps one from the opera house. Perhaps one who'd shake her head at the sight of the two poor little waifs of girls living in such poverty. Éponine hated the rich people who came to help, too, (though not as much as she did the Lark) but she said nothing, got to work at helping Azelma.

**::**

Later that night, a meeting was occurring at the Café Musain, as one did nearly every night. And indeed, this meeting was sure to go over well, for Marius was attending tonight, something which resulted in quite a lot of excitement amongst the members of _les amis_, who had long since gotten used to his absence.

This night was going as most nights did. Mostly. As always, Jean Prouvaire was hunched over his poetry book, his pen scratching away. Grantaire leaned against the counter, drunk as he was wont, and slurring about a pretty barmaid he'd shared his bed with the night before. Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged notes on the revolution and on various laws for the working class which needed to be improved, which Feuilly of course knew of firsthand, Bahorel through heavy books. Combeferre and Joly were having a conversation which outsiders who attempted to join in soon found themselves lost in, and promptly chose to leave and engage in different activities. Gavroche was all too happy to annoy Courfeyrac and Marius, and the two young men were all too happy to give him teasing swats over the head. If there was one thing that brought light to their meeting, it was the young urchin, with his constant bright spirit, sparkling blue eyes, and biting remarks, usually, but not always directed to Enjolras. All was as it should be in the minutes before Enjolras was finally ready to give his speech.

The problem: Enjolras was not present.

This fact was the only thing causing unrest tonight, for of course there existed the fear that their leader had finally been arrested. The friends, however, continued on as was normal.

Five minutes after the time the meeting was due to officially begin, Enjolras burst out of the broom closet. His blond hair was mussed, his shirt was unpressed and partially unbuttoned, and a red vest made itself noticed against the stark white of his shirt, what appeared to be ammunition attached to its front. The ammunition seemed to be attached hurriedly and hastily, clearly applied by their Apollo himself. Enjolras had never been one to bring much care to his physical appearance, despite his handsome looks, and perhaps ran a brush through his famous golden locks once a week. But this was new. All that was normal in his look was the passion and fire in his blue eyes. "I do know I'm late – forgive me. Please don't mention it, or else I may grow rather cross. But I've my reasons."

"Oi, well, you do know that we're all terrified of you when you're cross," Gavroche piped up. " … _Enjy_."

Enjolras shot the urchin a venomous glare. He shook his head. "I trust you shall all be relieved to know I've prepared a speech for once." Then, in a final reprimand to Gavroche, "And don't call me _Enjy_. I believe we've discussed this before."

"And I believe we've agreed I shan't listen," came Gavroche's smug retort, and all in the room (save Enjolras of course) burst into laughter.

Enjolras dropped into the nearest chair and sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead with his hand before looking up. "Firstly – " he began heavily, but was interrupted by Grantaire.

"Our dearest Apollo," the cynic proclaimed, "whatever have you done to yourself?" The comment was followed by a short, drunken guffaw.

Enjolras sighed. "I have spend many an hour labouring away at attaching my ammunition – which, mind you, was very hard to come by – to this vest, as a symbol for our revolution and for our cause. I would appreciate it, Grantaire, if you did not make any further comment."

He silenced Grantaire, but he could not silence his shaking shoulders from laughs that were not let out. Needless to say, the meeting did not, in fact, go over well. Every so often, Grantaire and Gavroche would see it fit to make some other saucy comment, and halfway through the speech Enjolras had so tirelessly prepared, Marius interrupted with a monologue about his beloved Cosette.

Later that evening, when the meeting was finally over and Enjolras was finally at his apartment, the leader in red collapsed onto the settee and fell asleep (an activity he rarely engaged in these days), ammunition-covered vest, mussed curls, and all.


	16. We Laughed At Fate and Mourned Her

**Until the Earth is Free**

**::**

Chapter Sixteen: We Laughed At Fate and Mourned Her

_September 26, 1831_  
_250 days left_

From the window of Cosette's bedroom was a perfect view of the garden. But some of the view was slightly obstructed by the branches of a tall tree, and this meant the young lady could always see the birds that nested there, and sometimes she enjoyed sitting down at the window seat simply to watch them. At the moment there were no songbirds to be seen, for it was beginning to grow dark, and all the birds would be sheltering in their nests. There was only an owl perched there, half-hidden for the shadows, calling out into the darkness and the night.

Had Cosette been in her bedroom, she might have been happy to sit there and watch the owl, for even those she found quite lovely. The window seat was still comfortable, and it was a fine pastime. She might spend an hour sitting there reading a book by the light of the oil-lamp and watching. Presently however, she was not in her bedroom, but in the sitting room with her father, working on an embroidery by the fireplace. He was reading from a heavy volume on some subject she didn't understand and cared little to know more about. Cosette normally enjoyed these quiet moments when it was just the two of them – she on the settee, he in a chair –and the warm crackle of the fire. Today, however, she found herself feeling rather cross and impatient. She knew it was childish of her, but Marius was sure to come for her soon and Papa would not permit her to go out for the chill. She also found herself worrying she would not see him until summertime, when at last she'd be allowed to go outside again. Would Marius still remember her by then, or would he have forgotten her? Cosette sighed as she fumbled with a stitch of her embroidery, which she was then forced to undo and sew back again with a heavy sigh.

Her Papa looked up. "Patience, child," he said, clearly thinking she was huffing over the fumbled stitch, and Cosette blushed and nodded without looking up from her sewing. She was working on a pillow for the settee on which she embroidered brightly coloured flowers, and now she held her half-finished work out at arm's length for examination. Cosette was well accustomed to embroidery, it was an activity she engaged in nightly, and thus was quite skilled, but this pillow looked messy and hastily done.

She shook her head, setting down the pillow and the sewing needle. "Do forgive me, Papa. I simply cannot seem to work properly tonight."

He regarded her over the top of his book and smiled gently. "That's quite all right, Cosette. I'm sure you are just tired." He closed his book and set it down on his lap. "Would you perhaps like to get some rest? I should think you'll need it."

Cosette slid her gaze over to the window, and imagined that Marius was waiting for her to come open the gates at this very moment. She knew she could not go outside, however, so instead she smiled and nodded, faked a yawn. "Why, yes, Papa, I do believe I am a bit tired. I shall get some rest." She stood and crossed the room as Papa got up to put out the fire. She hovered near the corridor leading off to her bedroom. "I stayed up quite late last night reading, I fear."

Papa shook his head at her as he looked up from the fire. "Dear me," he said. "Well then, you ought to get some sleep. I shall be out doing charity work at the church again all day tomorrow, I'm afraid. Should you like to come with me or stay at home and sleep?"

Cosette had started to turn and head to her room. Now she spun on her heel, trying to hide the hope that blossomed in her chest and made itself known with a wide smile and gleaming eyes. "Oh, I …well, I would simply feel dreadful if I didn't join you, for I still feel a bit guilty for not having helped you in the past … but … "

"Normally I would request your presence," Papa said gently. The fire was out and now he crossed the room and joined her, gently taking one of her hands and squeezing it. "But the both of us stayed late after Mass on Sunday, so I see no reason for you to feel guilty. Stay and rest, sweet child. You may fix yourself some breakfast when you wake, and we shall dine together. I will return at around six o'clock ..."

Cosette nodded and stopped in the doorway. "Yes. Yes, very well, Papa. I bid you good night." She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door behind her. The moment she heard Papa's footsteps going away she dashed towards the window and leaned out of it. Sure enough, Marius was standing there behind the gate, looking up at her window. When he spied her, he waved vigorously, and she beckoned to him. She knew she was taking a risk by inviting him in right now, but this meant she could spend all day with him tomorrow. She watched as Marius seemed to nod – she couldn't be sure from this distance – and promptly climbed the fence.

He crossed the garden and searched for a means to climb up to the window. After some searching he found one: the branches of the tree which grew nearby. Marius was not used to climbing, but he'd climbed the fence a few times in the past, and now he would climb this tree. He took a deep breath, reached up for the nearest branch within reach, and pulled himself up, surprised to find he moved upwards with ease. Before terribly long, he was climbing onto Cosette's window sill. It all felt incredibly daring and reminded him somewhat of the Shakespeare play Cosette had insisted he read, _Romeo and Juliet_. He hadn't seen why she liked it so very much and claimed it to be her favourite work of the Bard's, for it was such a tragic story. But that was insignificant.

"We must whisper," Cosette breathed in his ear. "And I think you should not come inside. Stay here instead. I cannot be long."

"Very well. Oh, why didn't you come? I wish you had, I waited for so long."

"I couldn't, Papa didn't wish me to for the chill. Forgive me. Well, either way, come by tomorrow. We shall have nearly all day. At eleven, perhaps? In the morning, I mean." Cosette studied him for a moment, and when he nodded her face lit up. "Now go, you mustn't be seen."

She kissed him briefly, and it was enough for Marius to nod again. He was careful as he stepped onto a thick branch for fear it would snap under his weight. Then, just as easily as before, he hurried down and parted.

**::**

_September 27, 1831_  
_249 days left_

That morning, Cosette woke just in time to hear the door to the apartment opening and closing. She sat up in bed and waited, then squirmed free of the sheets and blankets to crawl over to the window. She was careful not to be seen as she crouched by the window seat and watched her Papa pass through the garden and out the gates. He wore his top hat and his waistcoat, the one he wore only to church and to charity services. At one point, he paused and turned towards the window, causing her to gasp softly and duck down. She feared he might see she was awake and insist that she join him, and then Marius would be left waiting again. But he was only smiling to himself, he didn't see her, and after only a moment he continued out the garden and, after locking the gates securely behind him, continued down the street.

The moment he was gone, Cosette dashed out to the sitting room to look at the mantle clock. It was just past nine o'clock, giving her nearly two hours to ready herself. She found herself feeling slightly nervous as she wandered back to her bedroom and contemplated her many dresses. Whatever would she wear? She had many lovely dresses, but now she rejected all of them. If she wore her fanciest gown it might look as though she were trying too hard. Her stiff grey church dress was much too plain, and uncomfortable besides. She recalled his words the last time he'd come into the apartment: that blue suited her well. After some thought, she settled for a different blue gown, this one a deeper, midnight shade with lace at the cuffs, a gossamer veil over the skirt and a cameo pin on the collar. This she spread out on her bed before eating and continuing in her hasty attempts to beautify herself.

She ate a small breakfast of bread with cheese and honey, a glass of milk. After that, she washed the dish and glass she'd used and set them on the counter to dry. Normally Cosette was not required to do chores, for Papa spoiled her so, but she was well used to helping with the dishes and the laundry anyhow.

Next, she washed her face at the washbasin. She scrubbed hard with the cloth and soap until her visage seemed to shine. She combed her hair, and spent quite a lot of time at it. Cosette considered doing it up like a proper lady's, but in the end settled for simply tying a satin blue ribbon, the same shade as her dress, into her golden locks.

It was now ten thirty and she stood before her mirror in nothing but her petticoat, turning from side to side and inspecting her face, her hair, and boldly, her body. It was not considered right for a woman to inspect her body so, and Cosette realised it was the first time she'd dared to do so. She was sixteen now, seventeen in a month and a half. Her body seemed made up of gentle curves – her waist, her legs, her neck – and she had larger breasts than she'd been aware of before. There was a strange sensation of liberty in being able to stand all but naked like this, just taking in her body, simply the fact that she could do so was liberating, for it was _her_ body, and for a moment, she revelled in the freedom of it. But then she felt too guilty for the scandalousness of her behaviour – whatever would Papa think? – and she quickly turned away, slipping into her dress and stockings.

Cosette spent the next half hour pacing the sitting room and glancing up at the mantle clock. She often rushed into her bedroom to check her hair and ensure her curls were not mussed. It seemed time could not pass quickly enough, but at last, when the clock struck eleven precisely, there came the sound of something hitting the windowpane. Cosette all but dashed over to look, and her face broke into a wide smile. Marius had climbed the fence again and had tossed a stone at her windowpane with expert and precise aim so as not to shatter the glass. When he realised that she'd seen him, he dropped the stone he'd been preparing to toss and waved at her with that token and endearing grin of his.

She hurried down to meet him and let him inside, and he swept her up in a kiss the moment she opened the door. The kiss was quite improper, disturbed by her giggle as he swept her off of the ground. "My, you're impatient!" she chided him playfully as soon as she was set down again. "Can you not wait until, at the very least, we are inside? My neighbours might very well see, and they shall talk, and Papa shall now."

Marius took her arm. "Very well. I shall wait until we are inside, and no longer." They walked together up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor of the building. As soon as Cosette had closed the door behind them and they'd seated themselves on the settee, he cupped her face between his hands and asked of her softly, "Is it appropriate now, _mademoiselle_?"

"I should think I cannot wait, _monsieur_."

The kiss lasted a long time. It was a kiss full of giggles and squirms and the taste of the honey still fresh on her lips. Cosette didn't want to break away, but she did, for she hardly wanted them to spend the entire day kissing and doing nothing else. She wanted to talk, and to read with him, as was their habit with each other now, and perhaps play a game of chess. There was, in her bedroom, a fine chessboard Papa had purchased for her when she was ten, its wood finishing still sleek and the ivory pieces that came with it in excellent shape. The only piece that was chipped was one of the white pawns, which she'd dropped accidentally when the gift was still new. She'd burst into tears when she saw the damage, and had feared Papa would be angry with her, but he'd simply held her close and told her it was fine, it was such a tiny chip after all.

"Shall we read, then?" Marius murmured as he finally relaxed into the cushioning of the settee. He hadn't wanted the kiss to end either, but he also wanted to read with her, to hear her sweet voice say the words written by Shakespeare or Austen long ago. He adjusted his vest. Though Cosette didn't know it, Marius had also spent many an hour combing his light brown hair and desperately willing it to stay flat (which of course it didn't) and attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in his vest and trousers. He'd even taken a hansom cab to her apartment, despite the fact he normally walked, so as not to dirty the shoes he'd polished the night before, and Marius was not one to spend money without absolute necessity.

"Hmm," Cosette crossed her legs and thought. As she did so she leaned against his shoulder, sending a warm, tingling sensation vibrating through his body. "I don't know. I should like to, but indeed, I was also considering you and I play a game of chess. Do you play? I've often done so with my Papa, and I must say both he and I are quite good at it by now."

Marius, who had never played a game of chess in his life and whose only knowledge of the game came from his friends, nodded. "Very well. Have you a chessboard?"

"Of course I have," Cosette replied. "It's in my bedroom … I suppose you've not seen my bedroom before. Well, you have, but only briefly, and I should think you only saw the inside of my armoire." She stood, gracefully, offered him her hand. "Come, I'll show you."

Marius went. The only time he'd been in her bedroom he hadn't gotten a proper look around at all, for they'd been in a terrible panicked rush. From the garden, he could not see into her room, he could only see her if she stood at the window. As she opened the door to her room, he looked around and found himself startled. Nor had he been quite sure of what to expect, but somehow, it wasn't this.

The room was somewhat spacious, and well-kept. The bed was neatly made and the sheets were tucked into its frame, and the floor had been swept recently, in the past day or so, leaving it free of dust. A desk sat in one corner next to the window seat, the only signs of disorder in the room, where a small pile of books was precariously stacked. Marius glanced at the one on top and couldn't help but grin: a battered copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_, with a ribbon tucked into one page to mark her place. Also on the desk was a slate and a small chalk box. There was the familiar armoire, its door ajar. A shelf on the far end of the room held the rest of her books, of which there were quite a few. The fat copy of Shakespeare's works, a respectable collection of Jane Austen, but mostly there were volumes of poetry. Also on the shelf sat a large and beautiful porcelain doll in a pink satin dress and real blond curls, expertly painted blue eyes and an ever smiling mouth, a reminder of more innocent days.

Cosette, who had removed the chessboard from a drawer of her desk, saw him looking and blushed. "She's a doll from my childhood," she confessed. "Her name was Catherine. I know it's silly to keep her, but I cannot bear to part with her. She was a gift from my Papa." She looked away, embarrassed.

Marius, however, could not see why she might feel humiliated. "She's a lovely doll," he told Cosette. "And Catherine a lovely name. I must say, I rather like her."

Cosette blushed all the more furiously, but she smiled and took his hand again. "Come," she said. "Let's play chess. We may sit at the table."

"Yes, let's," he agreed as they walked out of the room. This time, he noted, Cosette left the door open behind her.

**::**

Marius left the premises at five-thirty, on the slim chance that Cosette's father would return home early. Besides, he had a meeting at the Café Musain in an hour's time, and as he'd missed the last one and been late to the one before that, he wanted to arrive on time for once save he face Enjolras' wrath. After bidding Cosette farewell at the gates of her garden and promising to return to her tomorrow, he walked down the Rue Plumet and to the Place San-Michel with the memory of her victory over him in their three chess matches still fresh in his mind. She'd beaten him thrice easily, and he couldn't help but feel slightly cross, despite the fact he knew it was childish of him.

At last, he slipped into the Musain and mounted the stairs to the secret meeting room above the café. Combeferre was already there, reading from one of his law textbooks. He did not look up from his book to acknowledge Marius' presence, simply lifted a hand in greeting. Enjolras of course had taken a seat behind the bar counter, riffling through papers and looking very busy. However, when he raised his head and saw that it was in fact Marius who had come in, and early, his face lit up with beaming pride. "Why, Marius," he exclaimed. "What a surprise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm quite busy at present and should not like to be disturbed. If you would please refrain from speaking to me until the meeting begins … "

Marius laughed. "As you wish, my friend." He sat down at a table in the far corner of the room so as not to disrupt Enjolras. He was about to pull out one of his own law textbooks when the door opened and in came Grantaire. The cynic dropped heavily into a chair next to Marius and dropped a packet of cards on the table.

"I've just had a most interesting conversation," Grantaire proclaimed, and Combeferre looked up and crossed the room to join his friends. "Enjolras, you might very well wish to listen to this; it concerns you."

When the blond student looked up in irritation from his papers and scowled ferociously, Grantaire merely laughed and waved him over. After the young rebel had clearly had a serious mental debate, he hesitantly joined Grantaire, Combeferre and Marius.

"This had better be important, Grantaire," he warned. And if his words and tone were not enough, then the look in his eyes certainly was. It was evident that he assumed Grantaire had decided to annoy him, and already he was suspicious.

But Grantaire was not saying anything in jest. For once, he was not drunk (yet), and as he leaned forwards, his words were serious. "On my way here, not ten minutes ago, I was stopped by a police inspector. I can only assume it is the very same Inspector Javert that Gavroche and Éponine were interrogated by a few months past, though I am not certain for I confess that I never laid eyes upon the man. But just as I was to enter the café, this Inspector stopped me and asked several rather invasive questions of me – about _us_, might I add. This group. He wished to know my name, asked to see my papers, and demanded to know if I knew what sort of activities took place in the 'upstairs room' on most nights."

The look of irritation on Enjolras' face changed to one of concern. "And you replied? I dearly hope you did not reveal the true nature of these meetings."

"You doubt me, my friend. I told him that occasionally I met with my friends and we played cards. I was lucky that I'd been playing a round with my friends the sailors by the docks a few hours prior and had not had the time to stop by my home and drop them off. I showed him the deck of cards, and – I swear I am not lying, that I do not exaggerate a single word – the Inspector went ahead and examined each card! At last he returned them and thanked me. I left rather hastily. But before I left, he reminded me that my duty must always be to the law, and to the King, and that fate would treat me kindly if I did so. Ha! _Fate_. What faith have I in _fate_?" With a scoff, he got to his feet, his news having been delivered the matter apparently closed. The drunkard fetched a bottle of wine and opened it, brought it to his lips, and drank.

Enjolras, meanwhile, was disturbed. "So he interrogated you. I believed the law was off our backs. It seems I was wrong," he mused. "It would appear the police are interrogating those they believe will let something slip: the young, and the drunk." He leaned back in his seat in a pose of deep thought.

Marius, too, was disturbed by this news, of course he was; and he could tell by the frown on Combeferre's face that Enjolras' second-in-command was as well. However, Marius was also somewhat puzzled, though he wished not to admit it. Enjolras had, after all, been discussing and planning the barricades they meant to put up in their revolution for nearly a year now, and his every intention was to have the people join them, to bring the current government to its knees. Why would it upset Enjolras if their revolution had caught the attention of the law if their purpose was to bring down the government? Would Enjolras not be gladdened by this fact, that their coming revolution was considered a threat? After some mental debate, Marius chose to speak up and voiced his thoughts.

Enjolras sighed. "Dear Marius," he said emphatically, "we most certainly wish to be noticed by the law, but not yet. The failed revolution of 1830 passed little more than a year ago, and the people are not ready to join our cause, to hear our shouts. We must wait. Patience, _mon ami_. We need a sign to rally the people, to call them to arms. Alas, such a sign has not yet come. Meanwhile, we must plan methodically, quietly, _secretly_. We do not wish for our rebellion to fall before it has even properly begun. This revolution shall be glorious, it shall be successful, but if the law intends to stop us now then no change shall be brought about."

"I see."

Grantaire had been preoccupied in drinking wine, but now he set the bottle down purposefully and stood up. "Would you believe it, though?" he snorted. "_Fate! _Shall we rely on some unknown destiny to lead us though life like a small child by the hand? Ordering us about? No, we shan't, for if there is such thing as fate then it is mine to kick its posterior and beat it black and blue. But of course, it would not be my _fate _to do so. It would be my choice. Free will and personal decision, _mes amis_. It is the only way." Then, his soliloquy apparently completed, he sat down and began to deal out the cards.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and returned to his papers. He cared little for Grantaire's philosophies, thought them childish and a distraction of their sole cause: revolution. Marius, on the other hand, went quiet as he picked up his cards and examined them.

However, Combeferre's interest had been spurred. "But it is our fate to answer the cries of those in misery, and to bring about revolution, is it not?" the bespectacled student queried.

"If fate remains on the side of the law," was Grantaire's reply, "then I should think it would not wish us to bring about the fall of the French government." It became clear however, that he thought this discussion over, for he added in a mutter, "I laugh in the face of fate," and took a long swig of wine.


	17. Into Darkness

**Until the Earth is Free**

Author's Note: I'm sorry to announce that this chapter marks the penultimate chapter of _Until the Earth is Free_. I originally intended for it to be longer, but I now see that there is little point in stretching it too much, and that I can easily wrap it up in this chapter and the epilogue. But remember, there is still one more chapter after this one!

Also, please note that the usage of the word "whores" in the narrative of this chapter is not intended to cause any offence, but is simply used so as to keep with the time period. It is also the first time I have given a more vivid description of prostitution in this story, as opposed to mentioning it in passing, so as per usual, reader discretion is advised.

**::**

Chapter Seventeen: Into Darkness

_October 19, 1831_  
_218 days left_

By the docks near the Seine, the prostitutes lingered. Of course, these women could be found in other parts of Paris – the slums, mostly – but it was here by the docks that they flocked. Lined up in rows, their faces coated in garish makeup, the scraggly state of their hair hidden with feathers and hats, their dresses brightly coloured and see-through, they stood like odd and exotic birds out of place amongst the filth and the sewage. The leering sailors prowled the rows of whores, grabbing and striking at random intervals at breasts and bottoms, at bare legs. Some of the newer girls scuttled away, recoiled, and were often rewarded with slaps and hisses. The youngest was about twelve years old, and she stood there shivering for the chill in her bright garments of loud orange and harsh violet, the gauntness of her young face hidden behind pounds of powder and makeup, several false peacock feathers in her waist-length brown hair. One of the sailors pounced upon her, his hand making its way up her bare leg, stroking it horribly, and the young girl had to fight hard not to shudder. But in a tremulous voice, she stated the "usual price", as the other whores had explained to her, of three Francs, and she let the dreadful man lead her away, his hand never leaving her leg, as she tried to stop the screams of distress clawing their way up inside of her from escaping her lips. She led him to a slummy room in the brothel, where he threw her roughly onto the weather-beaten mattress, shoved her skirts upwards. The sailor took her body, and she let him.

But such horrors were well and cleverly hidden from the rest of the city. Even in the Place San-Michel, which crawled with poverty in full view of the rich, and even in the hidden room above the Musain, where the young radicals openly discussed their revolution that would bring freedom to the people. Indeed, at the moment such a meeting was taking place, despite the fact that it was midday and not late in the evening, when most of their gatherings occurred. It had recently been brought to Enjolras' attention that a large group of beggar children had been arrested not far from the Notre Dame a week prior with no just charges, and he decided this called for an "emergency meeting." Now all the young revolutionaries were gathered in the room, which had grown quite cramped over the past several weeks: with more flags hanging on the walls and draped over the backs of chairs, various items of red fabrics such as tablecloths and even curtains hanging in front of the wine cupboard (amongst these was a red shawl Marius had borrowed from Cosette, which he often rubbed his cheek against during meetings breathed in its scent), but mostly of papers. Enjolras had built himself quite the reputation as a hoarder when it came to papers, and these now remained in precarious stacks on the shelves where wine was usually kept, scattered across the tables, and even forced into every possible corner of the broom closet. What kind of papers there were varied. Some were old drafts of speeches he'd given at past meetings. Others were countless versions of pamphlets he'd never gotten round to handing out. There were omnifarious newspaper clippings, self-organised profiles on police inspectors that the rebels believed posed a threat to their cause. But no matter what kind of papers there were, they were everywhere and there were lots of them.

Presently, the young rebel had taken his position standing on top of the bar counter, his hair ever dishevelled, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, and wearing the red vest he seemed to never take off these days. His eyes were both bright and hard with passion as he delivered his speech to his friends: "If we are to bring about change, then we must do so. General Lamarque is our only hope in defending these beggar children, the only man who still cares for the poor. But he is frail and old, already he is seventy-six years of age. I am still waiting for a sign so we might bring up our barricades, but we cannot go on waiting in the dark for that sign to come. We must take the next step forward so as to bring about action in our cause, else no justice will ever come to the people." He paused, waiting for someone to speak up, put in their opinion and idea. At last, someone did: Gavroche.

The little urchin was sitting across the room between Combeferre and Grantaire, but now he stood with a passion in his eyes worthy to match Enjolras'. He might have thrilled in annoying his friends and he might be so cocky and arrogant he grew tiresome, and he might only be all of ten years old, but when it came to the cause, he was just as involved as his older friends. When he spoke up, his words were determined. "What 'bout rallies in the streets?" he proposed. "Even here, in the Place San-Michel? I reckon we could cause some proper stirrin' in the people if we start some rallies. Peaceful rallies, 'course, for we don't wanna get arrested. But if Enjy gave one of his speeches and we handed out more flyers … " He let the thought hang in the air.

Enjolras leapt down from the bar counter and threw his arms in the air, a rare grin spreading across his face. "Yes, yes! I most certainly agree; this is the sort of idea we must be – " He was suddenly distracted by the sight of Grantaire gulping away from a bottle of wine. " – Grantaire! Put that bottle down!"

Grantaire made a point of taking another swallow of wine before setting the bottle down. "There is wine here," he replied, "and I am a drunkard, as you are well aware. Therefore I feel compelled to drink it. All our friends here drink wine during these meetings as well – even you, might I add?"

"Not while I'm speaking. Not while anyone is speaking," Enjolras felt terribly frustrated, enough so that he didn't see Gavroche sigh and sit back down. "Really, Grantaire! All you do during these meetings is drink away, and I daresay it seems you care little for these beggar children, let alone any of us. Even little Gavroche here is more involved in our cause than you are. Shall I even expect to see you at our barricades, where we will be fighting for and risking our lives in the name of the people and there will be little time to drink?"

Grantaire's words were pointed, but hushed. "I would follow you into the dark."

Enjolras scoffed. "Yes, I'm sure – " He was silenced by the feeling of a hand resting on his arm, and he looked down to see Combeferre regarding him sternly over the tops of his spectacles.

"Calm yourself, my friend," he said, gently but meaningfully. "Don't anger yourself over such a little thing." He did not remove his grip on Enjolras' arm, however, and Enjolras had to shake himself free.

Enjolras often doubted Grantaire. Oftentimes he found himself debating his trust in the drunkard. After all, the cynic came to each and every meeting and yet did nothing to contribute. All he ever did was drink. Drink away his everything. Even little Gavroche, who was only ten, and had been just eight when he joined their ranks, did more than Grantaire at these meetings. Ye gods! Gavroche was almost as passionate as Enjolras and probably more devoted than any of the other members of les amis save their leader. In fact, Joly had once fondly noted that Gavroche might very well grow up to be the next Enjolras.

Now, Enjolras turned to the street urchin, with his overlong blond hair, ill-fitting and worn clothing but cockade pin still attached proudly to his battered blue vest, dirty little face, sitting in his seat with his knees pulled up to his chest. The boy might have been ten, but he was so very small that he looked closer to seven or eight. This was the nature of most street children, the effects of malnutrition. Gavroche might have had street smarts, might be a survivor, but he was not immune to the effects of hunger.

Enjolras turned to him and tried for an apologetic smile. "Forgive me. As I was saying, Gav', your idea is a fine one. I shall organise a rally for tomorrow, or the day after if we must delay, in the square. I shall prepare a speech. Would any of you wish to join me?"

"I shall," Courfeyrac volunteered from the table opposite, raising one hand.

"Excellent," Enjolras acknowledged with a nod of his head. He returned to his position atop the bar counter, sitting this time rather than standing, and began to riffle through some papers. As he was preoccupied, the group gathered in the centre of the room and an avid discussion regarding the unfortunate case of the street children erupted. Grantaire did not take part. He remained in his seat, drinking wine and his eyes never leaving Enjolras.

**::**

Éponine was waiting for M'sieur Marius outside the Musain. She had seen him leave the Gorbeau house and wished to speak with him, for they'd not seen each other in the past several days and her heart yearned for him with a strange sort of hunger and longing. But she'd been able to see that he was in a rush, so she'd followed him. Éponine had, at first, thought that he was off to see the Lark, for sometimes he visited her in the daytime, but she'd dismissed the thought because she knew he would never allow himself to be late for one of his precious meetings with her. And if her thoughts were not enough, then she knew when she recognised the route they were taking as the one to the Place San-Michel. She was glad of it, and besides, it meant she would be able to see her brother again, and a treat it would be to see him indeed.

It had been easy enough to follow him, and he was in such a rush he'd not even noticed her, slinking along and shadowing his hasty footsteps like an alley cat. He'd entered the Café Musain and had not emerged for the past hour but still, she waited, even when it began to rain with no warning in a heavy and merciless torrent of pouring water. In fact, she remained just beyond the awning of the café, tipped her head back, opened her arms, and welcomed the rain as it poured over her body, not caring if she caught a chill. A little fall of rain could hardly hurt her now, with all the pain and misery and heartbreak she'd endured, even if that little fall of rain was more of a downpour.

Only when she realised that her teeth were chattering, and just how violently she was shivering, did Éponine slip under the awning and perch herself atop one of the barrels and wring out her soaking ragged skirts. She remained crouched, catlike, with her knees bent and legs folded but her back straight as she leant forwards. She listened to the rain's beating against the awning as she waited, a constant pattering.

Suddenly, the door to the café swung open and out came one of Marius' friends. She closed her eyes, thinking back, and it took her a moment for the face to be matched to a name in her mind, but after a moment she had one: Feuilly. He was shaking off his vest, and now he held it over his head as he ran across the deserted square, his feet bringing up great puddles with every step.

Éponine went on waiting. Someone else, a brown-haired girl in a red dress exited the café, and she hitched up her skirts as she raced across the square. A young man of the working class chased after her, calling her name – Berthe – and Éponine heard her laughs floating across the square over the rain. "You shall have to catch me, then!" she was saying, and then she turned a corner and was gone, the young man following her and laughing too.

She didn't know how much longer she waited, but it seemed to her a long time. Eventually though, she saw him exiting the café, his light brown hair messy from seemingly having been ruffled, the lights of the Musain seeping through the glass front and emphasizing his freckles, that pin proud and bright on his lapel, the ghost of a laugh from some joke he'd been told still on his lips, lips she longed to kiss. She hopped down from her perch on the barrel and stepped carefully behind him. Her hands reached out, and though he was nearly a full head taller than she, Éponine covered his eyes.

It had the desired effect. Marius yelped in surprise and spun, and she removed her hands and doubled over, laughing. Her shoulders shook and she slapped her knees as he seemed flustered for a moment, then realisation dawned upon him and he scowled at her, though his eyes laughed, and she knew he was not truly cross with her. Her heartbeat quickened and throbbed with a twisted joy. She always felt this way when she was with him, lighter and freer, somehow. She no longer felt the cold, or the sting of a new bruise on her arm where Thénardier had grabbed her earlier that day, just a feeling of exhilaration.

"Merciful heavens, 'Ponine," he chided her, and her heart throbbed as he used her special nickname. "You gave me such a fright! Must you?"

She stood up straight and pondered this. After great consideration, she retorted, "Yes. Why, yes, I believe I must." She laughed again. "And I was successful too. But if I truly frightened you, then forgive me." Éponine brushed back the locks of wet, dark hair that clung to her face and smiled up at him. See me,she silently pleaded. See me.

"So," Marius cleared his throat. "Have you come to see me or your brother?"

"The both of you. I trust he'll be out soon. Might we wait for him?"

"Of course, if you wish. But let's get out of this dreadful rain, I shouldn't like us to catch our deaths." Marius put his arm around Éponine's narrow shoulders and led her back to the barrels under the awning, where they sat side by side. He watched as she drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin there. It made her look smaller, and it struck him that it was a position Gavroche often curled up into. Oftentimes Marius saw such similarities between brother and sister. To begin with, they were both too bold and saucy than was good for them, and he supposed it was part of what drew him to her, his dearest friend. But there remained a constant difference: while Gavroche easily voiced his thoughts and opinions, there was an aura of mystery to his elder sister, something that Marius could not quite figure out. She was an enigma.

"Oh, the rain shan't hurt us," Éponine was presently scoffing, but she was distracted by the door to the café opening and swinging shut as Gavroche slipped out. He had trotted just beyond the awning when she quickly got to her feet and called out, "Gav!"

The boy turned, and when he saw his sister his face lit up. "'Ponine!" he exclaimed, delighted, and he ran over to her, throwing his little arms around her waist, holding on tightly and not letting go. She stroked his hair and held him close, too.

Afterwards, they walked, or more appropriately ran, through the rain, not caring now that they got wet. They ran about the square and laughed, chasing each other. While running, Gavroche slipped on the slippery cobblestones and cut open his knee, and when Marius and Éponine fussed over him while he protested quite indignantly that he was quite fine, Marius suggested they find some shelter to wait the rain out.

Student lifted urchin onto his shoulders ("But it ain't nothing!") and they walked the streets scouring. Gavroche had stopped complaining about being fussed over and was now enjoying his ride on Marius' shoulders. He felt much bigger and more powerful up here, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be a grown-up. From up here he also had a grand view, and he spotted a small church down the street, proposed they stay there until the rain ended. His offer was agreed with, and the strange trio entered the cathedral, where Marius gently set Gavroche down.

She was entranced. She'd never been inside a church before. Even back in Montfermeil, her family had never attended Mass in the village's little cathedral. It was quiet here, dimly lit by flickering candles. The hard wooden pews were mostly empty, save for a single nun praying in one of the pews near the front. The floor was clean and cool beneath her bare feet. The altar boasted a towering, but haunting, sculpture of Jesus on the cross, the blood trickling down his arms. The statue was made of gold and porcelain and for a moment Éponine wondered if the church didn't worry about anyone stealing it. Stained glass windows lined the walls, colourful promises to a God unseen but apparently present.

"Should we pray?" Gavroche asked hesitantly. "I ain't never prayed before. Dunno how."

"Not if you don't want to," Marius replied softly. "But you may if you wish. I could show you."

"Nah."

"Very well, then." Marius sat down in one of the pews, closed his eyes, bowed his head, folded his hands, and prayed. Éponine watched him a moment, then wandered over closer to the stained glass windows. This one featured a group of angels doing the charming sort of thing angels do, petting lambs, playing harps in the clouds. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and watched as the rain poured down. The way the water hit, it looked like the angel at the front was crying, an endless flow of tears.


	18. Epilogue

**Until the Earth is Free**

Epilogue

_Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,  
Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree;  
Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,  
But what are the beauties of nature to me?_

— John Oxenford, _The Ash Grove_, c. 1802

**::**

_June 4, 1832_  
_1 day left_

Paris at its most beautiful. In the mid-evening, with the sun setting and casting a gentle orange light over the city. The faint glow seemingly settled itself into every crack in the cobblestones, in the woodwork of every building. Warming the stones. That half-light breathed in the city's very heart. Such a perfect and beautiful sunset that not a soul could look into it and find their breath taken away. The sunset was beauty, it was hope, and it marked one day less to be lived on this earth. Another day gone. But there is a sort of beauty in letting go.

In the outskirts of the city, by the Gorbeau tenement, some haggard-looking women shared a large, but thin blanket underneath one of the few working gas lamps and sewed at patches in clothing by the faint light. Small urchin children huddled together against the walls of buildings with broken windows and doors clinging for dear life to their frames by their hinges. The children stayed close together, shivering though it was a warm night in early June. Prostitutes dressed in brightly coloured dresses and wearing heavy makeup lined up in rows while the worst sort of men lingered about them like a bad stench, reaching out and grabbing, picking out their plaything for the night with mocking scrutiny. Which one had the largest breasts? Which one looked the most nervous and would prove the most fun? Which one looked the most desperate? Such were the choices these men made on a nightly basis.

Far from these night terrors, in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the last of the evening strollers wandered, arms linked, the man leading the woman, as was proper. Though the sun was setting, many of the ladies still held parasols in their dainty hands, as was fashionable. Children, properly done up in tiny waistcoats and well-shined shoes, frills and lace and bonnets on those precious little heads, ran ahead and laughed, only to be scolded by their parents, for they would soil that lovely new outfit that Papa paid a great deal for.

In the Place San-Michel, life still buzzed about. The old man still sat on his stoop with weathered fingers reaching out and hands cupped in a prayer for kindness while that same battered hat sat at his feet. The scruffy young boys played with their India-rubber ball, tossing it against the wall and laughing when they caught it. The young mother still sat hunched underneath the lamppost knitting, and her little child still stayed close to her side. The schoolgirls crossed the square, giggling and gossiping, while the factory women sipped at their coffee and their daughters played Knights and Princesses, a game which they never tired of, just far enough away that their mothers could see them but not intervene or scold them for anything. A carriage rattled through the square, disrupting a pigeon that had been poking its beak between the cracks in the cobblestones in search of food. With a start, the bird flew off, leaving just a lone feather behind.

**::**

Éponine sat on the edge of her bed in the tiny room, resting her chin in her hands, scraggly hair falling over her head like a dark halo, and she the broken angel. There was just enough space here for her to place her bare feet on the cool stone floor. Éponine could hear the sounds of arguments coming from the main room of the apartment: angry shouts and curses, mostly. The others had chosen a mark, some rich couple living near the Pont Neuf, but her father was in disagreement. He thought the next target should be one in an even wealthier neighbourhood. In the Champs-Elysses, the gossip was that the couple residing in one of the homes were on a most expensive vacation to Austria, and thus would not be home to alert the authorities if the Patron-Minette chose to rob them. The problem was that they had a dog and a hired guard.

The furious argument went on, and Éponine sighed and shook her head in disgust. She hated these nights, nights when she couldn't leave this blasted room without having to face _them_, especially Montparnasse, nights when she didn't know where Azelma was, nights when she worried for Gavroche. Nights when she could hear Marius in the next room and found herself overcome with desire but most of all, her bitter sadness.

The candle, the only source of light in the room, was flickering out and dying. With the door closed, she'd soon be shrouded in total darkness. Éponine considered her options: she could either stay in this room in pitch blackness, probably all night and surely at the mercy of Montparnasse later on, or she could slip out and be free for the night, a wild thing borne of the streets, but most certainly be forced to face the Patron-Minette and her parents. It was when she heard the door to Marius' apartment open and close that she came to her decision.

As soon as she left the room and closed the door behind her, Éponine felt all eyes turn on her. Boring into her. The seventeen-year-old tried to compose herself, kept her back stiff as she went for the door with her head held high. _Yes, that's it, 'Ponine. Just keep walking, and you shall soon be out the door. You mustn't let anything they say stop you and it shall all be fine._ _You shan't be harmed. _As these thoughts passed through her mind, she heard a crooning coming from the table of men, one that forced her to take a deep breath.

"Where's our pretty little 'Ponine goin', then?" Montparnasse's words were like the trickle of ice cold water. "Surely, you'd wanna stay and help Papa. He is attending to most important business matters, and I should think 'e wants some help from his little girl."

Éponine's eyes flicked to her father, but at present he seemed disinterested in his daughter and whether she went out or not, a bottle of beer at his lips. The other members of the Patron-Minette were leering at her, but at the very least she was being ignored by Thénardier. She raised her chin defiantly. "I am going out," she responded to Montparnasse's jeers. "And I do not know when I shall be back." And with that, she went on walking, past the table and out the door. Down the stairs and into safety.

She caught Marius leaning over the well, adjusting his cockade pin, which had come loose. The way he stood, shoulders slightly hunched and tongue peeking out from behind his lips, his cravat askew and his hair just slightly mussed, was enough to cause her heart to beat faster. Éponine watched him a moment and hoped he would notice her. He did not. So she leaned in the door frame and grinned. "Why, _m'sieur_ Marius!" she crowed. "I certainly did not expect to see you about."

Marius looked surprised, and for a fleeting moment she thought him to be rather like a startled rabbit. But when he saw it was only Éponine, he smiled sheepishly and, she noted, adjusted his cravat. He stuck one hand out, which she took and clasped tightly in both of her own. "A good evening to you, Éponine," he said politely. "Fancy seeing you as well. Where were you headed, might I ask?"

She cocked one eyebrow. "Me? _Everywhere_." This last word she uttered in a rush of breath and with a coy smile. "I am going absolutely everywhere and should like it if you would join me, _m'sieur_." She didn't let go of his hand, and Marius had to shake himself free.

"Yes. Well, 'Ponine," he said, and her heart soared, like it did every time he used her special nickname, "I've a meeting to attend … would you care to join me? You do know, of course, that you are always welcome at the Café Musain, and I'm sure Enjolras would like it if you joined us. He is rather passionate about recruiting others to our cause."

By silent agreement, they began to walk down the ever-darkening street. Neither acknowledged the filth, Marius out of politeness, Éponine because she was well used to it. She was seventeen now, nearing eighteen, had been on the streets since she was twelve. Yes, if there was one thing she was used to, it was living amongst poverty and filth. They passed the place where the prostitutes often lingered, and she felt several eyes on her. But _m'sieur_ Marius was with her, and she felt protected. Not that she would have allowed any of those men near her, of course. She would have been all too happy to give them a slap or a knee between the legs. But that was beside the point.

"What shall you be doing at the meeting tonight, then?" Éponine asked lightly.

Marius glanced sidelong at her. She had, at one point, slipped her arm into his without his noticing. "We shall be discussing our barricades. As I believe you are aware, they are to go up in the next few days, and I shall be fighting there alongside my friends." In his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful green eyes, there was a strange sort of fire and passion she was not used to seeing in their depths.

She stopped short in her tracks and looked at him with an expression of shock and incredulity. "Pardon? The … barricades? But no, you mustn't go! You shall get yourself killed!" Her voice grew small, faint. "I do not think I could bear it if you died."

"It will be a glorious revolution," Marius said. "But I know you, 'Ponine, and don't you dare to try and fight alongside us. God, Éponine, you might be shot, for surely the army will be involved and attempt to put our revolution to an end. Your support to the cause would be greatly appreciated, but I don't want to see you in danger right there amongst the fighting. No, I won't allow it. The barricades are no place for women besides."

"But you might be shot as well," Éponine argued. "You cannot go." Her mind reeled, spun. She tried to visualise a life without her Marius, dear, dashing, stupid Marius, who wouldn't even look at her and yet she loved more than should be possible. When they'd first come to Paris, hungry and haggard and living in a sewer of an apartment in which they still resided, she'd met him, and suddenly, she'd felt as if she'd had a purpose to life. She'd been thirteen, and he nineteen. He'd come into her life quite by coincidence in a time of darkness. He was her very own private miracle. Back then, she'd thought him handsome with his proper clothes but messy hair and freckles, and had not been afraid to tell him so, even at thirteen. Then, the following winter, she'd been fourteen and had come to a realisation: she was in love with him. She yearned for him, and in these years he'd been the only person she could turn to, her only friend. To think he might leave her life now was heart-shattering. Though every moment she was with him her heart was breaking, it would be worth it, all would be worth it, because at least he'd still be _there_ for her. Quite distressed now she added, "_I_ won't allow it."

"Éponine – "

She slipped her arm from his, and as he'd not been holding on terribly tightly, it was hardly a difficult task. "I think … " she began, "I think I shall go for a walk on my own elsewhere now, _m'sieur_. I need time to ponder upon this situation." Éponine did not wait for Marius to say anything more. She hurried off into the night, and only when she'd turned a corner did she sink to her knees and silently weep.

No. Marius would not die. But she feared he would, and she knew she couldn't change his mind. She also knew she would not, simply not, be able to live without him. At the moment, any thoughts of whatever might happen to Azelma and Gavroche – or that her brother might very well join the fighting himself – were cast from her mind. If Marius were to die, then she would simply not permit him to die alone. She would die with him, and perhaps then everything would be right again.

**::**

Marius had told her he'd not be there for her that night, that he had a most important meeting with his friends. He wished to, he'd told her yesterday in the garden, but alas, he could not. In fact, he'd behaved rather oddly with her their entire meeting. There'd been more tenderness in the way he'd kissed her, stroked her hair, brushed his fingers against her face. Almost as if it was their _last_ meeting and they'd never see each other again. But of course, she chided herself, it was silly, for he'd been seeing her a full year and he would never leave her.

But, Cosette pondered, then why had he given her such a sad lock as he'd walked away the last night? And had his eyes been wet with tears? Thinking back, she thought his behaviour quite disturbing, and she chastised herself for not having noticed it that night, when she might have questioned him about it. Surely something must have happened to cause him to behave in such a fashion, and perhaps he needed her but had been too embarrassed to say so, and she'd not been there for him. But whatever could have happened, it did not explain why he acted as if it would be the last time they'd ever see each other. Such was her concentration that she could not focus on her reading. So she was relieved when she heard Papa calling from the kitchen: "Cosette! Dinner is ready! Run along and wash up now, love."

She stood, setting down her book. She washed her hands and face at the washbasin, then joined Papa for dinner. He'd made a soup, and was carefully pouring it into two china bowls from the pot. As he served the food, she set the table and poured milk into glasses. By the time she was folding the napkins, he had come with the bowls as well as some slices of that morning's baguette and put them in their places. "Thank you for setting the table, Cosette," he said with a smile as he sat down. "That was most thoughtful of you. Are you ready to eat?"

"Certainly," she returned with a smile of her own, taking a seat opposite him. She held one of the silver spoons in her hand, dipped it into the soup and brought it to her lips. "_Mmm_. Why, it's delicious."

"Thank you, my Pet. Which book were you reading there?"

She blushed. "_Mansfield Park_, again. It's simply my favourite, you know. I know I've read it many times, but … "

Papa nodded understandingly. "Yes, we do enjoy reading our favourite books over again. I know how very much you enjoy it, and I must say I agree. Miss Austen was quite a fine writer." He frowned suddenly, noticing the way she was playing absentmindedly with her spoon. "Are you quite all right, Cosette? You're quiet today, distracted. Is something the matter?"

"N-nothing," she said quickly, hiding the worry that must be on her face with a dazzling smile. "I'm fine. I was simply … thinking, that is all. About my book. Don't worry over me, dear Papa."

He regarded her carefully. "Well, if you're certain," he remarked, and they resumed their meal in silence.

**::**

The Musain, as always, buzzed with life. The elite and the working class mixed together just in this one place. Mugs of beer were gripped firmly in fists at the bar counter amid laughs and rowdy shouts. The working class men were thrilled by a bold young barmaid who twirled locks of her hair around one coy finger and lowered her neckline just so. The rich turned away, shielding the scandalous view with fans and newspapers and heatedly whispering about the absolute _nerve _of her.

Things were different in the room upstairs, where Enjolras prepared for the night's meeting, wearing his red vest and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. The young student sorted through the ever-growing stack of papers without properly looking at them, his blue eyes flicking back and forth before the sheet was discarded, shoved aside, tossed over his shoulder, sometimes even crumpled up. At present their revolution was growing hot, with General Lamarque so ill and weak; they hosted rallies in the streets nearly every day, and their barricades were sure to go up in the next few days.

Over the next half hour, the room filled up. Marius was, quite miraculously, on time today. In fact, he arrived even before a few of the others: aside from Enjolras, Grantaire and Joly were the only ones to arrive before him. Enjolras was rather pleased with this turn of events, and, while of course he did not say so, he was proud of his friend. Marius was, after all, the youngest of them other than little Gavroche, at twenty-two years.

On the topic of the eleven-year-old little urchin, Gavroche was the last to arrive, which was quite unlike him. He often took care to arrive early, oftentimes even before Enjolras. But he came in mere minutes before the meeting was due to start, his hair scruffy as always, wearing his token battered blue vest, well-worn trousers, French cockade pin proud on his lapel … and hauling something in a very large case that was nearly twice his size. As he dragged it with some difficulty into the room and dropped it with a heavy _thunk_ on the nearest table, all eyes turned on him.

"Gavroche," Enjolras asked with raised eyebrows, "whatever is that?"

"A cello," the boy retorted bluntly. He did not elaborate further, just crossed his arms over his chest.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "A _cello_," he repeated, struggling to come to terms with this fact. "Gavroche, I am not going to ask where on Earth you found it, for I should think I'm afraid to know, but would you please return it?"

Gavroche's voice threatened to reach a whine. "But it's for the _barricade_!" And frankly, Enjolras saw little point in arguing with him. Arguing with Gavroche often resulted in unfortunate consequences and besides, there was never any winning a fight with the young boy. _Choose your battles_, Enjolras reminded himself. _At present you've more important things to think of._

After this odd exchange, their meeting began properly. Not a long ways into the meeting, Gavroche went downstairs a moment, and when he returned, he delivered some grim news he'd overheard: General Lamarque was dead.

And it was here Enjolras made his decision, finally: tomorrow, at the funeral procession, their barricades would go up in all their glory and promise. Shouts were heard throughout the room, passionate shouts from all members of _les amis_: "_Vive la France_!" "_Vive la republique_!" "_Vive la révolution_!" "On the candles our grief, we will kindle our flame!" "Let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts!"

Enjolras spun a phrase so as to stir his friends and the people: "Red, the blood of angry men!" The young revolutionaries repeated it, a promise that would live on to see tomorrow and many days to come. The promise was passion, it was fire, it was stirring. _Red, the blood of angry men!_ A brilliant promise of change and hope, and a cry that, unbeknownst to them, would be silenced come the morning after tomorrow. But for now, that phrase and promise was heard, and it was made of pure hope.

Scarlet hope.

**~ The End ~**


End file.
